After the dream
by braille upon my skin
Summary: Troy has had nightmares since he was a kid. As a college student, an ADULT, he knows he should have his life together, by now. But, much like his volatile relationship with Gabriella, sorting himself out has never come easily for Troy. Troy and Ryan healing from their questionable upbringings and experiences at East High. T/R. Slash.
1. I

_**After the dream**_

I.

Troy Bolton moved out here, one thousand miles away from his parents, his childhood home, his best friend, everything he's ever known, to attend Berkeley University and be close to his girlfriend. Thirty-two point seven miles closer to her, to be precise.

His apartment is small, in a way that can strike him as claustrophobic when he glances up from his Calc. II homework, equations still whirling about his head, or comes up for air in the midst of studying Ayn Rand, and takes in the four walls surrounding him. Without pictures lining every other surface, like they did back home, and paned double doors adjacent to his bed that open to a spacious backyard, the place feels less… personable. Less welcoming. Almost kind of daunting.

Still, he does his best to make the space his own with his bedding from home, East High and basketball paraphernalia, acoustic guitar, and framed pictures of Gabriella.

It also helps that he sees Gabriella in person, even if it's only for a few hours a day.

In the evenings, after classes have let out for both of them, he'll drive thirty-two point seven miles, take her out for dinner or a movie, and lean in and wait for a chaste peck on the lips after he walks her back to her dorm on Stanford University's campus. Occasionally, they'll talk on the phone until her studies take priority, or her mom or best friend, Taylor McKessie, call her up on the other line, leading to her ending the call with Troy.

Sometimes, Gabriella giggles and tells Troy that he's "crazy" for moving out here. Sometimes, she seems distracted and nothing Troy says can quite recapture her attention. Sometimes, she tells him goodbye without the three words that part of Troy keeps waiting to hear her say, again. And, sometimes, there's nothing at all before she hangs up. Just a long, empty silence that makes Troy wonder, for the briefest of moments, if he made a mistake.

Troy ends every night the same way- reading until his vision blurs, then staring longingly at the picture of Gabriella wearing her powder blue sweater and a lovely smile as she sits on a table in East High's cafeteria, sitting on his nightstand. He'll flick off the lamp with the basketball base beside the picture, pull his quilt up over his shoulders, shift around to find a comfortable position, then drift off to sleep in a bed that he is the sole occupant of, as his girlfriend sleeps in a bed thirty-two point seven miles away.

.

Troy has had bad dreams since he was a kid; dreams about his dad chasing him down the street, yelling at him for something he did wrong. Dreams about monsters and other sorts of boogeymen pursuing him with the intent of doing him some unspeakable harm. He'd awaken from these dreams and go to his parents' bedroom, where he would be welcomed with open arms and comforted by soft words assuring him that monsters aren't real, and his dad loves him very much and would never hurt him.

As he got older, his fears changed, and the nightmares adapted to suit the changes.

He'd dream about the senior members of East High's basketball team, from when he first joined their ranks as a scrawny sophomore, cornering him and smashing his head into the tiled walls in East High's locker room until his skull cracked.

About coming onstage to sing his duet with Gabriella, in the winter musical, wearing nothing but his underwear, and the whole school laughing at him.

About Sharpay Evans, the self-proclaimed queen of East High's drama department, tying an absurdly long necktie around his neck and reeling him in as she gushed about their "compatibility", and how they were "meant for each other". Once he was close enough, his clothing would disappear, and Sharpay's hands would roam over his body, scalding his bare skin with each touch. She'd yank on the necktie, a _leash_ , to choke him as he fought to escape.

Dreams of his friends replacing him because he was no good to them, anymore.

Of costing his teammates and the school the state championships.

Of Gabriella breaking up with him, again, and reminding him just how worthless, selfish, and stupid he is.

And, more recently, of one of his dearest friends, Ryan Evans, getting held down and beaten bloody while Troy is immobile, unable to so much as twitch a finger as Gabriella palms him through his pants.

In this dream, Gabriella will pop Troy's fly open and lower her head toward his disturbingly erect cock as Ryan's cries for help pierce Troy's ears and set his heart pounding with enough force to make him dizzy and sick to his stomach.

The aftermath of these hellish reveries brings no comforting words and soothing embraces. Troy's rapid breaths and heartbeat rattling his ribcage are his only reassurance that he's returned to reality and left the horrible images plaguing his sleep behind him.

.

When he has a nightmare for the first time in California, and awakens to darkened surroundings that are still unfamiliar to him, Troy's first instinct is to call Gabriella.

She isn't pleased, and reprimands him for disturbing her sleep when she has class in the morning. Troy opens his mouth to tell her why he called, that he's had another nightmare- they used to talk about his nightmares, in high school. She'd arc an eyebrow, one corner of her mouth twitching into a smile, and tell him "Your brain sounds like a pretty strange place, Wildcat"- but she cuts him off with an insistent, "I need to _sleep_ , Troy."

Dismay washes over Troy. He fights to keep it out of his voice as he slaps on a smile and says, "You're right. I'm sorry. Talk to you tomorrow?"

Her hum in response is noncommittal, but it's better than a click followed by a dial tone; sounds that Troy is uncomfortably familiar with.

As he's lying back down, his room dead silent aside from the low hum of the central air system, he isn't sure why his familiarity with those sounds makes him uncomfortable.

.

The second time Troy has a nightmare, Gabriella instructs him, "Troy, _go to bed_ ", huffs out a breath, and hangs up the phone.

He decides then and there to never broach the subject with her again.

.

Troy leaves his apartment to grab some breakfast before his classes on a Wednesday morning. He's in the process of locking the door behind him when he catches a glimpse of a brightly colored hat and fair skin.

His heart skips a beat.

 _Ryan?_

Whirling around, he meets the sight of what is, unmistakably, Ryan Evans standing across the hall from him.

Ryan's eyes are wide, as if he didn't expect to encounter _Troy Bolton_ , of all people.

Statistically, and taking the enormous size of the state into account, the two of them bumping into each other, let alone ending up in the same apartment building is… crazy unlikely.

Troy tries not to think of fated lovers reuniting in a separate location from where they first met, as though destiny has brought them back together. He forces the thought that this is all too similar to Gabriella magically reappearing at East High on the first day back from winter break, out of his mind.

His eyes pour over Ryan, taking every inch of the smaller boy in almost hungrily. They sweep over Ryan's curve-hugging pants, his curvy hips, immaculately pressed, bright colored clothing, his soft features, the creamy porcelain of his skin, the bow of his _very_ pink lips, the bits of blond hair sticking out from beneath the tilted brim of his hat…

Troy makes note of Ryan studying him with equal intensity, Ryan's blue eyes softening as they flit over his face, and his heart leaps into his throat.

He can't remember the last time Gabriella's gaze softened when she looked at him. It feels good to be regarded that way, to have someone be _happy_ to see him.

He lets out a giddy laugh, because that's all he can manage, and it beats a sob, and, in an instant, he's traversed the hall and has Ryan in his arms.

Ryan makes a noise that sounds like a muffled cry of joy, and returns the embrace. His soft, smooth cheek rests in the crook of Troy's neck, he squeezes Troy's shoulder blades tightly but gently, and as Ryan's achingly familiar sweet scent wreathes around him, Troy thinks, for the first time, that _California feels like home._

 _._

"I thought you were in New York," Troy says. He and Ryan are on their way down to the lobby of the apartment.

His mind is still whirling, unable to quite fathom that Ryan is actually _here_ \- among the palm trees, weird green drinks, and heat so intense, it distorts the air around them, causing people's images to waver like the mirages that deceive people wandering hopelessly through the desert, bereft of food and in search of water. Troy has to covertly dig his nails into the palm of his hand, just to make certain he isn't caught in a particularly lucid and enticing dream.

He feels his nails scraping his skin, and Ryan's image doesn't waver as he walks beside Troy, out through the doors and into the heat of the day, matching him step for step.

Troy takes an absurd level of comfort in this.

"I… I decided to skip college, and jump right into auditioning for a show." Ryan's voice betrays his doubts regarding this decision.

Troy considers his words carefully before speaking. "That's a pretty bold move."

Ryan nods, but his face has blanched, eyes darkening with discouragement.

"But, hey," Troy goes on, hoping his voice is light, earnest, and sincere, "plenty of celebrities skipped college to go right after their dreams. If anyone can go the distance, Ry, I _know_ you can." He wraps an arm around Ryan, pulling him in close and rubbing at his shoulder.

A wary smile breaks out on Ryan's face. "You're not just saying that, are you?"

"Cross my heart." Troy uses his free hand to trace an 'x' over the spot on his chest where his heart rests inside.

Beaming, Ryan ducks his head, his cheeks flaring pink. He leans into Troy, and Troy feels a response to Ryan's close proximity stir something inside of him.

"So… Do you have a way of commuting to and from your auditions?" Troy asks. He's fully prepared to offer up his services. Yeah, his truck isn't the most reliable vehicle out there, but the thought of Ryan having to depend on a stranger to transport him back and forth puts Troy more than a little on edge.

"I was thinking about hiring a cab, or an uber driver. Or, just taking the bus. That's what normal people do, right?" Ryan's tone is flat and humorless, nearly causing Troy to take the inquiry seriously, but Ryan smiles and gives Troy a light nudge. "I'm kidding."

And, Troy should have known. Ryan is not so used to the perks that come with living in the lap of luxury that he's unfamiliar with customs practiced by the lower class. Like taking a bus when no other mode of transportation is available.

Troy knows from firsthand experience that Ryan is, honestly, the closest possible thing to "normal", that the Evans family has to offer. He was always the most down to earth member of Troy's group of friends, as well, and these things make him appreciate Ryan all the more.

Troy nudges Ryan back, grinning, and Ryan laughs softly, a lovely sound that Troy wasn't aware just how much he missed.

Until now.

.

That same heart-melting smile, the sensation of being close to Ryan, and Ryan's musical laughter pop into Troy's head periodically while he's sitting in lecture halls, and listening to his theater teacher prattle on about Shakespeare. They cause a smile to tug at his lips, and his heart to feel like a weight has been lifted off of it.

.

Gabriella cancels their plans to meet up for dinner and a movie. She does this with the scarcest hint of an apology.

For a moment, panic seizes Troy's chest. He thinks back to the last time Gabriella bailed on plans that they had made, and the time before that, and, the time before that, and his stomach churns with sudden nausea. She isn't thinking about breaking up with him again, is she?

No. She… She _can't_.

He can still fix this.

Right?

Then, the intense panic subsides, giving way to a dull, heavy feeling that permeates every bone and nerve. Troy slumps onto his bed, his body leadened down, and stares up at the ceiling. He knows he should be handling this better. He's in college. He's an _adult_ , now. He can't expect Gabriella to be available every time he wants to see her, especially when she's so busy acing all of her classes and rubbing elbows with the geniuses at Stanford.

But… _this_ , spending every night alone, Gabriella pushing him away and withdrawing from him without even telling him _why_ , wasn't what he moved out here for.

Troy rolls onto his side, and thinks about how he'll make things up to Gabriella. He'll reschedule their date, bring a picnic basket full of her favorite foods to her dorm room, maybe sing to her…

His eyes fall closed, and the last thought to cross his mind is him handing Ryan his red "BACK TO BACK STATE CHAMPS" t-shirt to wear over Ryan's dress shirt. Troy wanted Ryan to feel like he belonged among the other guests at the party held in celebration of the East High Wildcats' victory against the West High Knights in the state championships, and he didn't mind not donning their school's colors, for once. Especially if it meant making Ryan feel welcomed and accepted, and like the important part of the team that he was.

 _At least to_ me _he was important,_ Troy tells himself. _At least to me…_

.

A knock at the door to his apartment pulls Troy from a sleep he doesn't recall falling into, and he stumbles out of bed and groggily moves to answer it. He's rubbing at his eye with the back of his hand when he pulls the door open to be greeted by Ryan's brilliant smile.

"Hey, neighbor."

"Hey." In spite of the sleep still clouding his vision, Troy smiles back, He can feel his heart stir faintly.

"Did I disturb you?" Ryan looks Troy up and down, his face beginning to adopt an apologetic expression. "I'm sorry."

"Nah, it's cool," Troy assures him. "I just laid down for a nap."

"Oh." Ryan seems to consider Troy's response before pressing gently, "Are you sure you're okay?"

Troy wonders if the fact that he was stood up is written all over his face. If even Ryan can see that he's just a great big screw-up that has no business being in the life of, let alone being in a relationship with, an amazing girl like Gabriella. He isn't entirely sure why- perhaps it's the sincere concern darkening Ryan's features, perhaps it's the fact that Ryan has never judged him for anything, or the fact that Ryan is right across the hall, so Troy sees no point in shutting him out, can't bear the idea of Ryan not being in his life- but Troy invites Ryan inside, and, once Ryan is seated on the tiny love seat in Troy's living room area, Troy lets it pour out of him.

"Gabriella… I-I don't know what it is, or what I did, but, she…" He swallows, a realization hitting the back of his throat. "She's pulling away from me."

Ryan is still, his brow-line creasing and lips pursing. Troy can't determine if the news has unnerved him, or if he knew, all along, that something like this would happen, and isn't sure how to break that to Troy. Maybe he's holding back from speaking candidly on the issue, unlike Chad did when he offered his two cents, out of respect for Troy's feelings.

Troy runs his hands through his hair. He can feel his stomach churning and a weight sitting on his chest, crushing it. "She doesn't want to talk to me, anymore, and she just canceled our plans to get dinner and see a movie." He thinks back on the flat, detached tone of voice Gabriella had used to break the news to him. How she barely let him get a word in edgewise before abruptly ending the call. A lump rises in his throat. "It's _me_ , right? It-It has to be. I mean… I had to have done _something_ , or I wouldn't keep losing her."

"Troy…" Ryan's eyes and his voice are full of such sadness, Troy thinks of it as almost palpable. Like a pressure weighing nearly as heavily on the room as Troy's insistent, overpowering fear that he just isn't _good enough_ that perches on his back and, every so often, reaches over to squeeze his heart and yank at his stomach. "As far as I'm aware, you've only ever been an incredible boyfriend to Gabriella. You sent her off to Stanford with a smile on your face, even though it…" Ryan swallows and seems to brace himself, as though the act of dragging his next words out of his throat will be painful. "It _hurt_ you, not having her around, and especially not being able to practice with her during rehearsals for the spring musical. It takes a lot of maturity to do something so selfless. Heck… Troy, you were willing to throw your entire future out the window for her."

It's Troy's turn to swallow, and as he does so, his stomach begins to twist with apprehension. He never thought of it as throwing his future out the window. He was just tired of being a jerk to his friends. The scholarship he could potentially get from performing with Sharpay in the talent show at Lava Springs ultimately wasn't as important to him as what his friends thought of him, and they welcomed him back into the group with open arms and smiling faces after he shot Sharpay and her assurances that the talent show could "change [his] life", down.

He got Gabriella back because he shot Sharpay and those assurances down.

Living in the present with Gabriella was more important than his future. That was the lesson he took away from that experience. That was what Gabriella had wanted him to realize, all along- making her happy should be his number one priority.

And, he's tried his best to always make her happy, to put her needs before his own, to be the boyfriend that someone as amazing and important as Gabriella deserves. But, no matter what he does, no matter how much effort he puts into their relationship, something always comes between them. One slip-up and she's gone.

Because Troy is never good enough, and never will be.

Troy's heart aches sharply, intensely, and tears sting his eyes.

After a long moment of silence broken only by the sound of Ryan shifting about, like he means to get up and comfort Troy, but isn't sure how to initiate such contact, or even if he should, Ryan says, so leniently it causes Troy's throat to tighten and the tears to blur his vision, "I just… You're a really, _really_ good person, Troy. I know you would _never_ do anything to hurt anyone. Sometimes you even put others before yourself to such an extent, that it worries me. Please-Please consider the idea that, just maybe, _Gabriella_ is the problem. Not you."

The notion knocks Troy off-balance. _Gabriella_ , the _problem_? There's… There's no way. _Everyone_ loves Gabriella. She's amazing. She's perfect. She's a genius who got accepted into Stanford's Freshman Honors Program, for fuck's sake.

Gabriella always knows what's best, and she changed everyone at East High for the better, just by being in their lives. Troy is the screw-up, the idiot, the selfish asshole who can't do anything right, the disappoint-

He doesn't realize how this train of thought has impacted him until he feels Ryan's hand resting on his backside, between his shoulder blades. Ryan guides Troy into an embrace and Troy leans in, sobbing, much to his embarrassment, into the crook of Ryan's soft, sweet-smelling neck.

"I'm _so_ sorry, Troy. I didn't mean to upset you." Ryan's body trembles slightly, and Troy can tell that he means it.

"I-" Troy takes a second to compose himself, to hopefully remove the quaver from his voice. "I know you didn't, Ry. Things are just…"

"Complicated?"

"Yeah."

"They shouldn't have to be." Ryan's voice is so soft, hardly more than a whisper, but Troy still makes out the words.

Part of Troy agrees with Ryan. He makes too much sense to disagree with.

Yet… Troy also knows that his relationship with Gabriella has never been effortless. He's had to fight for it, sometimes tooth and nail. A few sacrifices here and there to make things work is what relationships are about, right? Everything in life worth having is something that you have to fight for, and Troy was raised to be a fighter, a winner, a champ.

"Hey, um…" Ryan starts, diverting Troy's train of thought, guiding it down a new track. "I know I'm no substitute for Little Miss Doe Eyes, but… I'd watch a movie with you, _and_ I'd make you dinner."

The weight eases off of Troy's chest enough to let a smile work its way across his face. "I'd love that." His heart, however, continues to ache, a dull, throbbing pain in the center of his chest. He rationalizes that he _shouldn't_ , but he brushes his nose along the stretch of Ryan's creamy neck and breathes in the blond's scent, as if it might soothe the pain, somehow.

Spring water. Ryan smells of spring water with a faint hint of strawberry and clean linen fresh out of the dryer. It's appealing, perhaps even intoxicating, if Troy dares to employ such a description for someone who isn't his girl.

An infinitesimal part of him raises the idea that spring water smells better than tropical fruit, that breathing it in feels less like inhaling a nose full of dizzyingly sweet, addictive antifreeze...

When he realizes that he just associated Gabriella, his girlfriend, the person who inspires his heart, with _poison_ , a crushing guilt slams into Troy's stomach.

.

The meal Ryan makes- chicken stir fry and green tea- is alarmingly delicious. It's the first genuine home-cooked meal Troy has had since relocating. Everything is cooked to perfection, the flavors tingle on his taste buds, and he can almost imagine that he's at home, eating food that his mom lovingly prepared for her boys.

Then, he thinks about the people he's left back in Albuquerque; his parents, Chad, envisions Gabriella sitting alone in her dorm room, tears glittering in her liquid brown eyes as her chest heaves with a sigh and she forces herself to focus on her studies for her Pre-Law courses.

He gulps the food down, and when it hits his stomach like a rock, he feels like such an _asshole_.

"You didn't have to do this for me, you know," he murmurs, poking at a piece of broccoli with the prongs of his fork.

Across the table, Ryan shrugs. He pushes a chunk of chicken into the soy sauce, coating it. "Of course I didn't have to. I _wanted_ to."

Troy takes a sip of green tea and as the flavor seeps onto his tongue, his taste buds absorbing it with surprising eagerness, he glances around Ryan's apartment. The walls are a muted, off-white color. There's a small window set in the far wall of the main living area, and Troy can make out the dim, orange glow of a streetlight just pouring in through the glass. Several rows worth of books line the shelves of a short, wide, black bookcase, and a small stack of books and magazines is accumulating on a coffee table sitting in front of a sofa. A radio sits in one corner of the room, and Troy can imagine Ryan's hips swaying to a 90s alt. rock song as he prepares for the day ahead.

The thought that he could _stay here forever_ shouldn't be occurring to Troy.

He looks back to Ryan, observes the grace with which Ryan lifts a forkful of noodles, chicken, and vegetables to his mouth, how Ryan chews the food almost daintily, and how his table manners are immaculate.

Ryan notices Troy staring, and a lovely flush fills his porcelain cheeks. "What are-" His voice comes out in a high squeak that Troy deems heart-meltingly endearing. Ryan clears his throat and tries again, "What are your classes at Berkeley like?"

As Troy informs Ryan that his professors are cool, if a little boring, sometimes, his basketball coach reminds him a little bit of his dad, his theater teacher almost makes him miss Ms. Darbus, and he's taking a psychology class as a minor, things he hasn't told Gabriella, that throbbing ache returns with a vengeance. It sharpens, becomes an acute longing.

Ryan assures Troy that all of these things are "so awesome", his eyes glowing, his wide, _Ryan_ smile earnest, and Troy can almost slap a name on the ache engulfing his core.

.

Troy's dream, that night, is reliving Gabriella breaking up with him at Lava Springs, last summer, for the umpteenth time. Reliving her placing the 'T' pendant necklace that he bought for her with his accumulated allowances and birthday money, back into his hand, and running away from him. Severing their bond. Cutting his heart right down the middle.

Grief constricts Troy's throat, tears slipping down his cheeks as he watches Gabriella leave them, everything they've been through, everything they shared, _him_ behind.

She doesn't look back. Not once.

His heart slams against his breastbone when he wakes up, and his body is leadened down with fear; that he's about to lose her again, because he's such a _fuck-up_ , that he moved out here for nothing, that he'll never be good enough for anyone, or amount to anything.

Instinctively, he reaches for his cellphone on the nightstand, ready to scroll to Gabriella's name in his contacts. He needs to hear her voice. Even that would be enough. But, he knows he would be bothering her by calling, so he retracts his hand and runs it through his hair, instead.

 _I'm so_ stupid, Troy thinks. He wants to punch himself. His outside deserves to hurt as much as his insides. Swallowing, he tries to will his pulse to slow, and lies back down, pulling his quilt over his bare chest.

The numbers on his digital clock flash 4:54 AM.

He dreads going to class, later, knowing full-well that he's going to look like absolute hell.

As he closes his eyes, Troy's heart reaches out for Ryan, just across the hall. Ryan, who is probably curled up in his bed, sleeping soundly, his lovely features peaceful, his sleep free of anxiety-inducing, terrifying, fucked-up nightmares.

At least, Troy hopes that's the case. He doesn't want Ryan to have to relive every name ever spat at him in the hallways of East High, and every shove, fist to his face, knee to his stomach, and leg shooting out to trip him that he ever endured, every time he closes his eyes.

Folding his arms over his chest, Troy's last thought before sleep takes him, once more, is imagining soft, fair skin, pink lips, and golden hair taking up the vacant space beside him.

.

Just like he did the night of their senior prom, Troy waits for Gabriella outside of Stanford's campus. He perches up in the branches of the same tree, armed with a bouquet of roses and a picnic basket filled with margherita pizza and chocolate-covered strawberries. Feelings of apprehension eat at his stomach, just as they did the night he resolved to make the long, one thousand fifty-three mile drive from Albuquerque to the university, and right before he made the announcement that he was following Gabriella to college.

He gulps them back, trying to dismiss them. This is the right thing to do. He… loves Gabriella.

Doesn't he?

Troy recalls the sweet scent of Ryan's skin, the warm, comforting sensation of Ryan's arms draped across his backside, and fiddles with his sleeves, folding them around his elbows and refastening the cuffs. His leg jumps, unable to stay still with the anxiety charging him. He inhales through his nose and attempts to calm his racing pulse.

He waits.

Just like that night, students trickle out of the building with no sight of Gabriella's soft waves of dark hair and olive skin.

Troy doesn't let this faze him. He knows she'll be the last one out.

The sun sinks over the horizon, staining the surrounding sky with shades of orange and deep red. Like…

Not blood. Blood is an omen.

Like a cherry snowcone.

Troy glances at his bare wrist, his leg continuing to jolt. His stomach grumbles quietly, complaining about its emptiness. He hasn't eaten since breakfast, and he only picked at that. He just couldn't get anything down until he made things right.

As the first traces of indigo and purple begin to darken the sky, Troy finally sees her, and his heart seems to shoot up into his throat.

Gabriella emerges from the building, a faint smile on her lips. She's wearing her wine colored sundress, her shining waves of hair tied in a loose braid that rests on her bare shoulder. A gentle breeze rifles past, blowing several free strands around her face.

Troy's hand slips into his pocket, resting on his phone, ready to pull it out and place a call to Gabriella. When she answers, he'll playfully tell her to "look up", she'll see him, and her brown eyes will widen, her mouth opening in an incredulous smile. She'll tell him that he's "crazy", perhaps make another comment about his love of trees, and he'll jump down, gifts in hand. He'll offer her the roses, which she'll take, eyes gleaming softly, and he'll escort her to her "chariot". They'll drive off to the outskirts of town, and eat the pizza together while lying in the back of his truck and gazing at the stars.

Everything will be okay, again. They can even invite Ryan to their movie nights, and he can join them for dinner, maybe even sleepovers-

The sound of Gabriella's laughter shatters Troy's fantasy.

Another boy; tall, with dark hair, leans into Gabriella's petite form. A carefree smile is spread across his face, and Gabriella's, as well. His hand rests on Gabriella's arm, long fingers tracing the contours of her elbow.

Troy's jolting leg stills. His blood runs cold.

Gabriella doesn't pull back as the distance between her and the other guy lessens. She doesn't say, "Um, actually, I have a boyfriend".

There's a rock in Troy's throat, and a pain in his chest. _Don't_ , he almost pleads.

Gabriella reaches out and tangles her fingers in tendrils of the thick, black hair on the back of the other guy's head. Just like she tangled her fingers in Troy's hair the night before she left for California. Eyes closing, she and the other guy seal off the remaining space between them. Her face connects with his, and his arms wrap around her, drawing their bodies together, fusing them, like the atomic particles in Gabriella's favorite school subject.

The universe isn't kind enough to have the other guy angle his body in a manner that obscures the… _fusion_ from view.

Tears stinging his eyes, his throat so constricted, he can hardly breathe, Troy and his gifts drop from the tree. He lands hard enough to make a noise.

He wishes he would have fallen and broken his neck.

The other guy is the first to notice Troy. He turns around, mildly startled by the _thud_ that accompanies Troy's landing.

Gabriella follows his line of sight, and when she spots her boyfriend- or is it _ex_ , now?- she stays where she is, at the other guy- her _new_ boyfriend-'s side.

"You…" It comes out as a barely there croak, and Troy can feel his tears beginning to spill over. He's sure he looks like the completely out of his depth _idiot_ he really is, especially next to this tall, handsome, Stanford University student. "You couldn't tell me you'd found someone else?"

The other guy looks to Gabriella, his brows furrowed and brown eyes full of questions.

Gabriella meets his look, and appears almost exasperated with this entire situation. "Look, Troy…" she sighs.

Whatever it is, an explanation, an excuse, Troy doesn't want to hear it. He _can't_. He leaves the stupid bouquet and picnic basket, and drags his body back to his truck.

He feels every foot of that distance.

Thankfully, the pickup's engine splutters to life on the first try, and Troy tears out of the parking lot, his vision blurring with a fresh round of hot tears.

He should have known. He's _never_ been good enough for Gabriella. What is he, after all? Her stupid, damaged, oversensitive, incompetent high school _leftover_. Why the fuck would Gabriella ever choose _him_ when she has an entire sea of handsome Stanford boys who match her in intellect, and competence, and would never call her in the middle of the night to talk about their fucked-up nightmares…!

Troy punches the steering wheel once. Twice.

He contemplates driving through Death Valley and steering his truck into a bottomless ravine.

He considers veering into a pole.

Deep indigo swallows the last traces of red and orange in the sky.

Streetlights flick on.

Troy blows past every street sign. He can almost envision his heart as a mangled, pulpy mass, gushing blood with every labored beat as that _kiss_ replays itself over and over in his head. He imagines clawing the bloody clump of muscle out of his chest, just to make the blood flow, the _hurt_ seizing his entire body, stop.

Thirty-some miles down the road, he happens to notice that the gauge for his fuel tank is nearing 'E'. Hefting a sigh, he resists the urge to let his truck break down and leave him stranded to slowly, painfully die of starvation and dehydration, _alone_ , and drives into the nearest gas station.

While he's refilling the tank, he wipes at his eyes and sucks in a shaky breath. If he didn't come back to the apartment complex, Ryan would worry about him. If he crashed his truck into a pole, Ryan, and Troy's parents, and Chad would be upset. He can't just quit on them. He-

Troy's thoughts are silenced as a voice reaches his ears.

"Hey. What are you-? Stop. No!"

Troy doesn't think. He doesn't have to. He takes off toward the source of the sound, near the back corner of the building, farthest away from the bright fluorescent lights illuminating the front of the structure.

A tall, gangly form is hunched over a familiar hatted figure with porcelain skin, blond hair, and blue eyes. Blue eyes stretched wide with panic. Fear.

White hot fury blazes through Troy. His jaw tensing, he surges forward and… his fist hits bone. He can feel the _crunch_ under his knuckles. Breathing heavily, he stares at the man lying crumpled below him with a trickle of blood seeping out of his mouth, and a nauseous feeling swims through his insides. _What am I…?_ A thick fog descends upon his mind. He feels detached from the situation, almost somnambulant.

None of this can actually be happening. Right?

Hands wrap around the crook of Troy's elbow, and he just processes a light, alto-tenor pitched voice calling to him. "Troy, come on. _Hurry_."

Ryan.

Troy's heart pulses with something faint that doesn't entirely feel like blood spurting from a gaping lesion in his chest. Dazed, he stumbles forward, more than happy to function on autopilot, if that's what he's doing, now, and let the rational party call the shots.

Sluggish, he pays for the gas at the meter, and once he and Ryan are piled in the cockpit of the truck, Troy peals out of the fuel station, speeding down the open road.

"Are you okay?" Ryan asks.

It occurs to Troy, through the sleep-like haze clouding his brain, that this is an odd question. _Ryan_ is the one who just narrowly avoided being mugged, or sexually assaulted, or whatever that bastard was planning to do to him. Then, a flash of Gabriella's lips locked with that other guy's blindsides Troy, and his chest tightens. Alert enough to feel the pain pulsing in his center, another stab to his heart, he white-knuckles the steering wheel, almost choking on the gravel in his windpipe. "No," he replies, his voice thin, hoarse.

Ryan is silent, but Troy can feel his eyes on him. Soft, understanding.

Out of the corner of his eye, he sees Ryan reaching over, and feels a gentle squeeze on his bicep. He breathes in to quell another sob, and it's less unsteady, this time.

"We don't have to talk about it until you're ready," Ryan says in a hushed, lilting intonation.

Troy lets his eyes leave the road long enough to look briefly at his passenger. Ryan's face is unblemished, completely clear of cuts and bruises. His shirt is wrinkled, and his hat sits slightly askew on his head, but his clothes are otherwise spotless. He's unsullied. Untainted. Relief floods Troy's ribcage, easing some of the pressure clamping down on his heart. "Thanks." The smallest trace of a smile tugs at his lips.

Ryan shakes his head lightly; a wordless, _Don't mention it_.

Per Ryan's suggestion, they stop at the first fast food joint they encounter. It's a Dairy Queen.

"Order whatever you want," Ryan says. "I'm covering the tab."

"Are you sure?" Troy asks, the fog around his brain beginning to lift. Just because Ryan is rich, that doesn't make it okay for Troy to keep imposing on him.

Troy's stomach, however, has different ideas. It picks that moment to gurgle audibly, reminding Troy, once again, that he hasn't put anything into it for hours, and the pizza he intended to eat is probably being devoured by Gabriella and her new… _man_.

"Positive," Ryan assures him firmly. "Come on. I know you have to be hungry."

Troy meets Ryan's eyes with his own, sees the plea in the depths of those baby blues, and caves.

.

"What were you doing outside of that gas station?" Troy asks, picking up a handful of french fries from the tray sitting in Ryan's lap.

"Long story. I had an audition at a playhouse in the vicinity. My damn uber driver," Ryan pauses to eat a few fries, himself, "was a no-show. I guess, in a lapse of judgment, I decided it would be a novel idea to bring hitchhiking back into fashion."

Troy swallows. He reaches over to grab his drink from the cup holder. "That guy. What was he…?"

"He wanted to mug me. He figured, based on the way I was dressed, that I had money on me."

Troy sips at his drink and his eyes flick over Ryan's slim-fitting jeans, shining dress shoes, probably freshly polished, cotton dress shirt, tilted hat… He's sure they all came with a price tag sporting a large numerical value, but they're not the only giveaways that Ryan is a product of an opulent upbringing. _The way you carry yourself, your flawless complexion, soft skin… How_ small _you are._ "You could have called me," he says softly, the carbonation in his Sierra Mist, and maybe something else, making his eyes water.

"I thought you were busy." Ryan's eyes are fixed on the floor. He sounds… apologetic.

Troy checks the road and, assured that they're in no immediate danger, takes one hand off the steering wheel to replace his drink and grab at Ryan's shoulder. He rubs the lean muscle under the thin fabric of Ryan's shirt, tracing tiny circles with the pad of his thumb. "He didn't hurt you, did he, Ry?"

"No. You got there just in time. You're…" Ryan lifts his head and gives a soft laugh. A smile tugs at his lips, and his eyes, tinted gray by the streetlights they pass, teem with affection. "You're a real knight in shining armor, Troy."

Troy's cheeks flare with warmth. "Rusted armor, maybe," he murmurs, reflecting on the condition of his hand-me-down pickup. "Chipped." Like the vehicle's paint job.

"But, still beautiful."

The air in the truck is suddenly thicker, heavier. Troy feels the floor of the cockpit shift beneath his feet. _Beautiful._ He thinks about pressing his mouth to Ryan's, taking Ryan's glossy pink bottom lip between his teeth and nibbling on it, littering kisses along the stretch of Ryan's creamy neck that he sobbed into, the previous night. He imagines Ryan's lovely, talented hands splayed across his chest, massaging the flushed, sensitive skin over his pectorals, Ryan's mouth on the shell of his ear, whispering that word and sending shivers down his spine.

 _Beautiful._

Troy has a faint memory of Gabriella telling him that he looked "handsome", on prom night. Right after she called him "crazy". "Do you think I'm crazy?" The question just slips out. He hears himself prompting it before he can consider the strangeness of such an inquiry.

"I don't see you trying to hitchhike while dressed like the poster boy for twinks everywhere."

Troy has to divert his eyes from the road to shoot Ryan an incredulous look. Ryan meets the look, his face so serious, Troy can't help but release the laughter that bubbles up in his throat.

.

Two partially eaten Blizzards- a Royal Oreo and a Royal Rocky Road Brownie- sit on Ryan's coffee table.

Troy is reclined on Ryan's sofa, only half-cognizant of the black and white movie playing on the TV. "You spoil me, Ry," he murmurs, his eyes falling closed. His body and brain are ready to shut down, for the night, and with a full stomach and the peaceful atmosphere of Ryan's dwelling, he can barely keep himself from sinking into the welcomed tide of exhaustion lapping at his consciousness.

"You deserve to be spoiled," Ryan says. As he rejoins Troy on the sofa, Troy leans in and rests his head against Ryan's shoulder. The cotton of Ryan's dress shirt is soft against his cheek.

"I'm so glad I got to you in time," Troy says. His voice is thick, far away from his own ears.

"Me, too." Ryan's voice has a just detectable quaver to it.

"I'm sorry I keep imposing on you."

"Troy, it's okay. _Really_. I…" Ryan pauses, and, when he speaks again, there's an intensity backing his words with an origin that Troy almost thinks he can put a label on. If he could just get closer, fall into the skies in Ryan's eyes, take Ryan up to his treehouse, feed him chocolate-covered strawberries because his hair smells like them… "I offered."

Troy can feel Ryan's fingers tentatively combing through his hair, stroking it, and he nuzzles into Ryan's shoulder, wishing the barriers between their flesh were non-existent. "Please don't leave me," he whispers, lifting his sleep-heavy limbs to wrap them around Ryan's lithe torso. As if this, alone, could keep Ryan anchored to his side.

He just registers a watery but adamant, "I won't. I _promise_ ", before he breathes in and lets the tide carry him off.

.

Troy awakes with a start, several hours later, to a dark room. The TV is off, the trash from his and Ryan's meal disposed of. A fleece blanket has been wrapped around Troy, and several pillows have been placed against the armrest of the sofa, where his head had been mere moments ago.

His panic subsides when he discerns a familiar head of tousled blond hair and Ryan's soft features only a few feet away from him. Ryan is curled up on top of a quilt on the floor. The blanket over top of him is tucked around his shoulders, his chest rising and falling gently beneath it, his eyes closed and expression tranquil.

A book lays open, face down, beside him.

Troy's heart twists. A sad sort of smile tugs at his lips. He settles back down on the sofa and pulls the ultra soft blanket Ryan gave him up to his chest. Tucking one arm under his head, he stretches out his free limb, brushing his fingertips against the tufts of Ryan's blond hair within his reach.

The ache has returned, gripping his core in its viselike hold, but he has an inkling that he finally understands the reason for its existence. "Thank you," he whispers to wonderful, life-saving, _beautiful_ Ryan. As he closes his eyes to drift back off, Troy knows that, if he could, he'd press his lips to Ryan's forehead and give him a tender kiss. To thank him. To wish him goodnight. To…

.

A light nudge accompanies the voice calling out to him. "Troy. Hey. Rise and shine."

Troy opens his bleary eyes to find Ryan in front of him.

"I didn't know what time you had to be up for your classes, so…" Ryan provides, sheepish.

"Thanks," Troy murmurs. He pushes himself into an upright position and rubs at his eyes. While wiping crust away from his left eye with his knuckle, he makes out a smile quirking the corners of Ryan's mouth. "What?"

"Nothing. Just.." Ryan purses his lips, clamping down on his burgeoning grin. He reaches out like he intends to run his fingers through Troy's hair, but drops his arm to his side, letting it hit off of his hip, instead. "You're, um. You're adorable."

Troy realizes that he must have serious bed-head, and heat fills his cheeks. _Not as adorable as you are_ , he thinks, but refrains from saying it aloud. "Can I-" he starts to ask, but changes his mind halfway. "I should get going."

"Right." Ryan's expression clouds, all traces of a smile vanishing.

An emptiness settles into Troy's bones and muscle tissue. He doesn't want to leave the warmth of Ryan's blanket, the comfort of Ryan's sofa, the safety of his little apartment, _Ryan_ , but, he carefully tosses the blanket aside and forces himself onto his feet. Cold air hits a stretch of his stomach that has been exposed by his crumpled up shirt.

Ryan's eyes are immediately riveted on the section of skin, and Troy is almost overcome with the desire to grab Ryan's hand and press it against his abdomen, let it cool his flesh, which seems to be getting steadily hotter with every passing second.

"Thank you so much for the food and for… everything," he just manages.

His voice is like a thunderclap that jolts Ryan back to reality. Ryan rips his eyes away from Troy's stomach, his cheeks deep pink. "It-It was no trouble at all. Really."

Troy pauses, searching Ryan's eyes for something… Permission, maybe, to want him this badly, even though he just got out of a relationship, and you're not supposed to want someone else so soon after catching your now ex-girlfriend sucking face with a hot stranger. Reciprocation of the desire surging through his body and threatening to dominate his senses. "I would have been really lost without you, last night."

Ryan's Adam's apple dips as he swallows, and his eyes darken. "I'm right here if you need anything," he says softly.

"I know," Troy whispers. Right as he's about to move toward the door, he takes a detour and sweeps Ryan into a tight hug. He crushes their chests together, and his heart seems to splutter with relief when Ryan lifts his arms and requites the hug, fingers pressing into Troy's shoulder blades as if he never wants to let go. Ryan's chin rests in the crook of Troy's neck, and it's so natural, so easy…

Until their pelvises knock together.

"I'm so- _Shit_." Troy backs away, his face blazing.

"Wai-" Ryan starts.

"I'm sorry, Ryan. I-I need to-" Troy doesn't finish his sentence. He rushes out of Ryan's apartment door and across the hall. Hand shaking, he fishes his key out of his pocket and jams it into the lock. Once the door to his own apartment is shut behind him, he slumps against the back of it.

He stares down at the bulge filling out the front of his pants, and hates himself. Hates himself for not being good enough for Gabriella, and for dragging Ryan into his bullshit. His mess. His-

He tries to will the manifestation of his desire away, to no avail. As he rips his jeans open, resigned, and slips his hand into his boxers, he curses himself. With every rough, careless motion of his hand, he wishes he would have driven into a pole.

"I'm such a fucking idiot," he breathes.

.

"Um, helloooo."

Blinking, Troy becomes aware of a girl sitting inches away from him. She's brunette, with streaks of pink shot through her dark brown hair, gray eyes, and penciled-in eyebrows. "Hey," he greets her. His head is foggy, as if just waking from a dream, and he glances past her face at the room around them, trying to figure out where he is.

"I've been sitting here for like five minutes, trying to ask you out."

"Huh?" Her words fall on semi-deaf ears as Troy processes his surroundings. It looks like he's in English class. The room buzzes with the sounds of his classmates engaging each other in conversation.

He recalls his English classes at East High. He and Ryan were assigned seats next to each other, and became partners for every project by default. Ryan was also the go-to guy for reading passages from Shakespeare, the author Troy personally struggled the most with. Ryan would slip effortlessly into the characters' personas, his voice full and strong as he delivered monologues and soliloquies alike in his lilting, theater-y cadence. Watching, listening to him was mesmerizing, and it almost helped Troy to understand what the plays with their centuries out of fashion language were trying to communicate to their audience.

"You know." The girl's chair squeaks against the floor as she stands up, drawing Troy's attention. When she gathers her purse, her bracelets clink together, and her eyes are cold, her upper-lip curled in irritation, maybe even disgust. "You're hot as fuck, but you're _so_ not worth the trouble."

The words shouldn't, but they cut into Troy like knives. He's hit with the memory of Gabriella telling him that she wasn't going to do the callbacks because of the horrible things he said about her. The hurt darkening Ryan's eyes when Troy snapped at him, that summer at Lava Springs. Fury and pain clouding Chad's eyes every time he challenged Troy about sidelining him and their friends. The T-pendant necklace sitting in the palm of Troy's hand as Gabriella climbed into her mom's mini van and drove out of his life, because he ruined her summer. The humiliation Troy caused overzealous sophomore, Jimmie Zara, by stealing his clothes and forcing Jimmie to chase him through East High with nothing but a thin white towel to preserve his dignity. Sharpay's insistence that Troy was holding Gabriella back from something as amazing as Stanford. Gabriella informing him that she couldn't follow through on their plan for her to fly in and attend the prom with him, because it would hurt her too much, her muttered "I'm sorry", before her end of the line went dead, Gabriella ordering him to " _go to bed_ ". Popping a fucking boner on Ryan…

And, now… this.

Troy digs his nails into his thighs, and wishes with all of his might that he would disappear out of everyone's lives.

.

The remainder of that school day passes by in a gray haze, Troy only partially absorbing the material in his classes. He skips lunch, and when he tries to listen to music to take his mind off of the chaotic mess swirling around inside of him, every song conjures thoughts of Gabriella or Ryan until his heart is left aching.

He ignores a Skype call from Chad to avoid burdening him with his nonsense, and to focus on his out of class assignments, but winds up rereading the same paragraph at least ten times.

 _What the hell am I doing?_ He stops to ask himself in the middle of basketball practice.

"Bolton, look out!"

Too late to heed the warning, Troy turns around and is smacked upside the head by a stray basketball. It ricochets off his skull with enough force to knock him on his ass. His coach rushes over to help him to his feet, and though the man's brows are crinkled with concern, all Troy can imagine is the shame and disappointment he would have had to face from his dad.

His body leadened down, numb, hollow, Troy trudges out to his truck, at the end of the day, and braces himself for the engine to stall. For a solid three minutes that feel every bit like twenty, Troy struggles to get the vehicle to start, and eventually has to get out and mess with the damn radiator cap.

By the time he gets back to the apartment complex, he wants to sink into a deep sleep and never wake up again.

Ryan is sitting in the lobby, wringing his hands, when Troy walks in through the front doors. He jumps to his feet, and Troy halts in his tracks.

"Ryan, I-" Troy starts. Then, everything overflows. He crumples, tears stinging his eyes, his voice breaking. With the way he ran out, this morning, Ryan must have thought- "I'm so sorry. I'm _such_ a moron."

"You are _not_ a moron," Ryan insists. He crosses over and takes Troy into an embrace. His close proximity, being held in Ryan's lean arms, even though he didn't think he deserved to be held by anyone ever again, is enough to coax the first sob out of Troy's throat.

Wrapping his arms about Ryan's petite form, Troy just manages to stifle a whimper as another sob escapes him.

Ryan strokes through Troy's hair and rubs at his back until Troy's cries have subsided to quiet sniffling. "But, there's obviously something wrong," he says, his voice free of derision, annoyance, disgust. There's nothing in his tone but an earnest desire to help. To console. To maybe even collect the shattered pieces with sharp edges sifting about in Troy's chest, and cement them back together. "Do you think you might be ready to talk about it, now?"

Troy presses his cheek to Ryan's temple, uncaring that the side of Ryan's hat is poking his head. "Yeah." He nods firmly, sniffling.

Ryan continues to caress Troy's scalp, sending pleasant tingles across the span of it and down Troy's spine.

Troy melts, unraveling, going slack in Ryan's hands, and, for the second time, he thinks he could _stay here forever._

 _._

Ryan puts a tea kettle on. "Is grilled cheese okay?" He asks, pulling a skillet out of a cupboard overlooking his stove.

"How do you always know when I need to eat?" Troy sets down the glass of ice water Ryan handed him as soon as they entered his apartment. It's near half-empty. Troy was surprisingly dehydrated.

"Call it a hunch." Ryan's inflection is cheery, but there's a solemn, reticent undertone to his words, and Troy is sure a frown is pulling at the corners of Ryan's mouth.

Troy thinks back to their senior year, to Ryan offering him cookies, candies, even half of his lunch, as Troy spent the better half of two weeks in a near-catatonic state after Gabriella's departure for California. His heart stirs with yearning. "Grilled cheese sounds great. Thank you."

Ryan smiles to show that he's heard, then prepares the skillet. As he's slicing the cheese, he hums to himself. The melody is vaguely familiar, soothing.

"Is there anything I can do to help?" Troy asks.

"You can butter some bread and set it on the skillet, if you please."

Eager to assist the person who has repeatedly gone out of his way for him, to do something _right_ , for once, Troy all but leaps to his feet. He takes four slices of bread from the breadbox on Ryan's kitchen counter. He rummages through the fridge and pulls out a tiny container of butter, then removes a butter knife from Ryan's silverware drawer. Crossing to the stove, he spreads butter across both sides of each slice, then carefully lays two of them on top of the oiled up skillet.

Ryan joins him and places one cheese slice on each piece of bread. With a soft smile, he encourages Troy to stack a second piece of bread on top. As the sandwiches begin to sizzle away, Ryan says, "They shouldn't take too long."

"Yeah."

Ryan gives Troy a light, affectionate nudge, and rubs the small of his back. "Go ahead and make yourself comfortable. I'll bring the tea in a minute."

"Awesome." Troy nods. He grabs his glass off of the kitchen table and situates himself on Ryan's sofa. He crosses and uncrosses his legs and picks at his fingernails before settling on skimming one of the books on the coffee table.

Which is back in its spot in front of the sofa.

Troy tries not to linger too long on what it could possibly mean that Ryan moved the coffee table in order to lay so close to him, last night… and how this thought makes his chest tighten.

He's reading an odd fairytale about a wicked step-mother who has casted spells on every body of water her fleeing step-children encounter, ensuring that one drink would turn one of the children into an animal who would promptly devour their sibling, when Ryan arrives with two steaming mugs of tea, and two plates of grilled cheese sandwiches.

Troy sets the book aside and accepts his mug and plate with a grateful smile.

"Careful. It's still hot," Ryan advises. It's unnecessary, but Troy can't help smiling to himself. It really is adorable how Ryan dotes on him.

He just wishes Ryan didn't have to devote so much time to looking after someone who _should_ be a fully competent and capable _adult_.

Ryan takes a cautious sip from his mug; very light blue, and covered in a design that looks to be a bowler hat, cane, and gloves doing jazz hands.

"Nice mug," Troy says.

"Thank you." Pink colors Ryan's cheeks, again, and Troy wants to tell him that he's beautiful.

Instead, he remembers what he's here for. He takes a bite out of his sandwich while it's still warm, and while he can still get it down. He lets himself revel in the taste of it for a few fleeting moments, acknowledges that he had a small hand in making something so good, and, steeling his nerves, he gulps the food down around the lump already constricting his throat. "I drove to Stanford, the other night. I told myself that I had to make things right with Gabriella. I made sure to get all of her favorite foods- margherita pizza, chocolate-covered strawberries…" A wry smile pulls at his mouth. "I even bought a bouquet of roses. It was cheesy and stupid, but I just wanted everything to be perfect, you know?" His eyes flick to Ryan, who watches on, brows beginning to draw together.

He lays a hand on Troy's knee, offering quiet encouragement for him to continue.

Troy scrapes remnants of bread off of his teeth with his tongue, and grabs hold of Ryan's hand, squeezing it for comfort, reassurance, motivation to get this off of his chest. It comes out as hardly more than a whisper. "She was kissing another guy."

Ryan's gaze hardens, taking on an unsettling iciness. His jaw sets. Shaking his head, he runs his thumb over Troy's knuckles and says, his voice uncharacteristically harsh, "Fuck her. She may be an Einsteinette, but she's also a selfish, inconsiderate bitch who has no idea what, and more importantly, _who_ she callously discarded."

Hearing someone call Gabriella a "bitch", astonishingly doesn't bother Troy as much as he thought it would. As much as it might have in high school. "The guy was hot," he says quietly.

If Ryan is surprised by this, his face betrays nothing but a slight arcing of his eyebrow.

"And a genius," Troy goes on, unsure if he's stating this as an objective fact, or using the statement as an excuse for Gabriella's actions. People's affections don't stray unless something better comes along, and a tall, handsome Stanford University student is going to appeal to anyone over a short, messed up…

"You're no slouch, yourself." Ryan's grip on Troy's hand tightens. His eyes flare with a sudden intensity that melts the earlier iciness and replaces it with something simultaneously softer, and more vehement. "Aside from the fact that you're incredibly, ludicrously, _undeniably_ _attractive_ , Berkeley doesn't exactly have a reputation as a school for dummies."

Troy lowers his eyes to his lap.

Ryan leans in, ducking his head to find Troy's eyes with his own. The soft pools of sky blue set in his fair face are warm, earnest, sincere, and, perhaps there's a bit of desperation there, as well, for his words to register. "Do you have any idea how many girls, and guys, would kill for a sweet, selfless, intelligent, versatile, _and_ romantic boyfriend who shows up at their university to surprise them with a bouquet of roses and their favorite foods?" When Troy's expression remains blank, reflecting the void gaping beneath the surface, Ryan presses, insists, "Troy, you have _never_ been the problem."

"Really?"

"Yes. _Seriously_."

Troy searches Ryan's face for any trace of dishonesty. He takes in the sensation of Ryan's hand entwined with his own and resting on his knee, the smoothness of Ryan's skin. He has no reason to believe that Ryan is lying, or embellishing for the sake of kissing his ass, like so many of their peers at East High, but… "Do you legitimately think I'm all of those things?"

"Of course I do." Ryan's voice is soft. The tinge of desperation in his eyes sharpens, causing a crease in his brow line, and Troy's stomach twists. He hates that he's making Ryan, wonderful, sweet, if a bit awkward, smart and adorably eccentric, insanely talented and bound to be a star Ryan, worry about him. "Hey. Why don't you finish eating, and then we can walk across the hall and grab whatever you need for an overnight stay. I-If you want to, that is."

Troy lets the tip of his nose brush Ryan's in a faint ghost of a touch. He peers into Ryan's eyes, smiling softly, and squeezes his hand, hoping to communicate to him that Ryan's invitation has just alleviated so much of the tension on Troy's chest. "I'd love to. Thank you."

.

Tendrils of Troy's hair curl against the back of his neck, heavy and still damp. Freshly showered and clothed in a thin t-shirt and boxers, Troy leans forward on the sofa in Ryan's apartment and pours over his Calc. II homework. In his peripheral vision, he can make out Ryan studying a copy of _Othello_ that has multiple slips of paper poking out of its pages. Occasionally, Ryan seems to squint at a particular passage and hold the book closer to his face, and Troy almost wonders if…

He's about to put the pause on computing derivatives and ask the question perched on the tip of his tongue, when Ryan sets the book aside and stretches.

"How goes the Calculus?" Ryan asks.

"Numbers are surprisingly easy to understand, even off the basketball court."

"Maybe for you. I can count a beat, and keep track of the numbers associated with each musical note- quarter, half, sixteenth- but higher mathematics are a foreign language to me."

"Says the guy who ranked at the top of our AP English class all year, while also studying French and Spanish."

" _Oh Dios mío. Comment vous me flattez_ ," Ryan remarks, touching his hand to his chest.

"Yeah." Troy feels an amused smile play on his lips. "I have no idea what you just said."

"Well…" Ryan crosses over to the sofa, and Troy can see his pajama pants riding low on his waist beneath the hem of his t-shirt. "I can't make heads or tails of…" Ryan squats down and scans the screen of Troy's laptop. " _That_."

Troy follows Ryan's line of sight to the function. "If it's any consolation, Ry," he assures him, jostling his shoulder lightly, "you'll never need to. Most people will never need to."

"Thank _goodness_ for that. One of life's small mercies."

Troy bites back a laugh. Chad earned a reputation as the class clown for his antics, but Ryan's snark never fails to send amusement fizzing through Troy's insides.

"Anyway," Ryan goes on, cheeks flushing a faint pink. "I, um… While you were in the shower, I put something together for you."

Brows elevated, Troy watches Ryan stand up and traverse the floor to retrieve his light blue MacBook Pro. Ryan swipes his fingers across the laptop's mousepad and opens the Itunes application. "Call it cheesy and stupid," Troy doesn't miss the fact that his own descriptions for his actions, the previous night, are being recycled, "but I've always felt that music can aid in the healing process, and I think a little catharsis would be really good for you."

Troy doesn't comment. He just watches and listens intently. When the sound of an acoustic guitar flows out of the laptop's speakers, accompanying Adele's rich voice, he's prepared to shake his head and return to his Calculus homework. No music, however powerful the singer's voice, can seal up the wounds Gabriella has carved into his heart.

But, with the second repetition of;

 _Send my love to_

 _Your new lover_

 _Treat her better_

He's hanging onto every word, something inside restructuring itself from the ground up, fortifying. Gabriella _did_ set him free.

The track transitions into the upbeat "Gonna Get Over You", by Sara Bareilles and Troy's swaying, almost subconsciously, his foot tapping to the infectious beat.

Ryan prances into the kitchen on feet as light as air, and Troy can smell chocolate chip cookie dough and hear Ryan's lilting alto-tenor singing along. Ryan shoots Troy a soft, encouraging smile from where he stands at the counter, and part of Troy aches to get on his feet, to let the music flood his muscle tissue and guide his body across the floor. Shake every last trace of Gabriella's nuclear fusion with another man, of their relationship, out of his system as he dances his way to a new beginning, to a reset button.

To Ryan.

The words to Kelly Clarkson's "Since U Been Gone", are lured out of his throat, raw emotion- anger, betrayal, heartache, _relief_ \- backing each syllable, before Troy even realizes that he's singing along.

Cee Lo Green's "Fuck You", has Ryan and Troy belting the lyrics, grins on their faces as they declare each " _Fuck her, too_ ", and it _is_ liberating. By the time they get to the ridiculously cheesy, "I Will Survive", the incredible, appetizing smell of the chocolate chip cookies baking in the oven fills the apartment, and Ryan is dancing around the main room, rocking his hips to the disco beat, and Troy is on his feet right beside him, melodramatically tossing his hair and _laughing_ as he twirls and moonwalks across the floor. He's sure he looks like an idiot, but he can't find it in himself to care. Not now, not here, _not with Ryan_.

Ryan offers Troy his hand and Troy takes it, two-stepping with him around the coffee table, then spinning him out. With every repetition of the chorus, Troy feels more and more like he _will_ be okay, that he _will_ survive. And, the intense sparkle illuminating Ryan's eyes as he watches Troy empower himself, only reinforces that sentiment.

.

Troy accepts the invitation to share Ryan's bed without any hesitation. He rationalizes that it's easier on Ryan than moving the coffee table and sleeping on the floor beside the sofa.

For the first time, when he awakens from a nightmare, his body coated with cold sweat, clothes sticking to his skin, and heart hammering against his breastbone, there's a warm body sleeping soundly beside Troy, lulling him back to sleep with the sounds of tranquil breathing.

A warm body with skin that glows alabaster in the moonlight, and golden hair.

Eyes already falling closed, once more, Troy settles back down beside Ryan and makes himself comfortable, snuggling into the petite blond's backside. His nose finds a spot on the back of Ryan's neck, just below his hairline, to rest against, and he breathes in, letting himself drift back off with the scent of clean linen and strawberries filling his nostrils.

.

Ryan burns the "Rebirth- or Getting Over Your Adulterous Ex" playlist onto a disc for Troy.

Troy takes it with a grateful smile and kiss to Ryan's cheek. A kiss that makes Ryan blush and touch a hand to the area Troy's mouth made contact with in an impossibly adorable way.

Troy listens to the entire playlist on repeat until scar tissue forms over the wounds incised on his heart.

Though, he's pretty sure the bundle of chocolate chip cookies Ryan handed him is also aiding in the healing process.

.

Loud, digitally produced chimes fill Troy's apartment.

Troy sets aside the barbels he was doing curls with, and moves to where his laptop sits on his bed. He answers the Skype call on its second ring. "Hey, Chad."

"What's going on over there, man? I heard from Taylor that Gabriella's running around with some brain in her Pre-Law class."

"You know… " Troy ignores the faint sting Chad's tactless phrasing inflicts on his core. "You were right. Gabriella _was_ one step ahead, and I just wasn't seeing the bigger picture." He can feel Chad's questioning gaze trained on him through the screen, even though he hasn't selected the video chat option.

"She cheated on you," Chad finally says, surprise evident in his tone.

Troy scratches at the back of his neck. "Yeah," he affirms quietly.

"That… That fucking sucks."

"Yeah." It's barely discernible, and Troy wonders if Chad can even hear him as he gives a despondent shrug. He catches sight of the CD sitting on the nightstand; the title printed in Ryan's neat handwriting, and a feeling of warmth pushes out the thick, heavy melancholy. "I'm just lucky Ryan is here to-"

"Wait. Evans is there? Didn't he get a scholarship to that Juilliard school?"

Troy wishes Chad would quit referring to Ryan by his last name. It's demeaning. "Yes, _Ryan_ is here." He isn't sure how much to divulge to a third party, so he settles for the succinct, "He decided to just jump right into auditioning for a show."

After a moment of near unsettling silence, during which Troy braces himself to defend Ryan's decision, _Ryan, himself_ , if it comes to it, Chad lets out a faint laugh. "That sounds like something you would do, Hoops."

Troy's heart gives a pang as the observation resonates. "You think so?"

"Come on." The warmth in Chad's tone is like a friendly jostle to Troy's shoulders. "Who knows you better than I do? With the way you two were practically attached at the hip, last year, I'm not surprised you're rubbing off on each other. Just… don't start wearing sparkly hats on me."

Troy smirks. "I don't know. I think the hats are growing on me." He and Ryan rubbing off on each other… He doubts Chad has even considered the alternate meaning of that statement. The _very appealing_ alternate meaning.

"Whatever, asshole. I'm whooping your ass when Berkeley plays against U of A, next month." There's no barb, no sting to Chad's words. Just the amicable competitiveness that makes Chad such an asset when they're playing for the same team, and a worthy challenger when they're pitted against one another.

"Looking forward to it, buddy." Troy considers gushing to Chad about how amazing a chef Ryan is, how Ryan's cookies could easily put Zeke's to shame, how he never would have survived the last couple of days without Ryan…

Instead, he listens to Chad go on and on about his acclimation to U of A, how Taylor is thriving at Yale in her Honors Political Science courses, and lets his mind drift to Chad's planned visit to Berkeley, in a few weeks. Troy is going to make sure to include Ryan in all of their escapades, and make absolute certain Chad gets to sample at least one of Ryan's culinary creations. He wouldn't miss the surprise lighting up Chad's face, and the grudging respect for the boy Chad once derided as an "overgrown show dog", stealing into his features, for the world.

.

 **A/N:** This story was inspired by an "imagine your OTP" prompt on Tumblr. Wouldn't you know, somehow, it's become so massive, I've opted to split it into two parts.

I'm sort of in love with the idea of Ryan heading to California, after graduation, as opposed to New York. I wish more authors would explore that avenue and all of the limitless potential for Tryan it brings. But, alas… you guys have seen the state of creative output involving Troy/Ryan. It's… not good.

I hope that all of my dear readers will rejoin me in the second part of this story. Until then, take care.


	2. II

**A/N: This section deals with a depiction of an eating disorder. Please read ahead with caution.**

I said this story would be a two-parter, but, once more, I found myself getting carried away, and had to split what should have been the second part in two.

I just really love writing about these two beautifully broken and tragically under-appreciated characters.

As always, I have absolutely no copyright or ownership claims to any recognizable properties, and I apologize sincerely for the lengthy gap between uploads. I hope I haven't lost any of my readers by taking so long to cobble this together.

.

* * *

 _ **After the dream**_

II.

The next two weeks fly by.

Ryan teaches Troy how to make some damn delicious blueberry pancakes. Troy instructs Ryan on how to sink a three pointer. They work out on adjacent treadmills at the gym Troy has become a member of, and Ryan shows Troy how to execute a few yoga poses.

Troy's spine is sore, afterwards, but the view of Ryan's pert butt that a Downward-Facing Dog provides is worth enduring the pain.

Troy drives Ryan back and forth to auditions, and the routine is easy to fall into. So easy, it thickens the scar tissue over Troy's heart, and he's almost erased the image of Gabriella's nuclear fusion, her _cheating on him_ , from his brain.

.

One night, Ryan gets a callback, and he lets out a delighted squeal and sweeps Troy into an embrace. Troy hugs him back tightly, rubbing the small of Ryan's back and telling him over and over how proud of him he is, and how he's going to kick ass at his callback.

Ryan takes a step back from the embrace and studies Troy, his eyes sparkling. "I'm so glad you're here." His words, once more, hold a weight to them; a meaning just below the surface.

Troy's breath hitches in his throat as he digests one possible meaning. "Y-Yeah?"

"Yeah," Ryan confirms, his voice and expression serious. Almost pleading. "I want you to stick around for a long, _long_ time, Troy. You…" He slides his hands from where they rest on Troy's back, up to Troy's shoulders. They're cool to the touch, but leave a trail of warmth and pleasant shivers in their wake. "You deserve to be happy, you know that, right?"

Troy stills, his throat tightening. He isn't sure how to reply to that, and he's certain the "No, I don't", and "Are you sure about that?" battering his brain and flitting across the tip of his tongue are not the responses that Ryan wants to hear.

That concern has returned to tug at Ryan's neatly groomed eyebrows and darken his eyes. He arches up on his toes and leans in, touching his forehead to Troy's. "Let yourself be happy. _Please_."

Troy has had it driven into his head to not make promises that he can't keep. _"Promise is a_ really big word _, Troy"._ That's what Gabriella had said.

Before she broke the most significant promise she had ever made to him.

"Gabriella wasn't always right."

 _"I_ always _do the right thing."_ Troy distinctly recalls Gabriella telling him that; the declaration so emphatic, so confident. Even after making him think she wanted Ryan, after breaking up with Troy because he was neglecting her and her desire to have a summer worth remembering in his efforts to get a scholarship, after withholding her acceptance into Stanford's Freshman Honors Program from him and being more than slightly annoyed when he asked her about it, after he had to find out from _Sharpay_ because Gabriella refused to _talk to him_ …

"As a matter of fact, there are a lot of things she was wrong about," Ryan goes on.

Troy resurfaces from his thoughts at the sound of Ryan's voice, and is caught off-guard by the intensity pouring from Ryan's gaze.

Sincerity and anger ooze from every word that leaves Ryan's soft, pink mouth. " _Hurting you_ , for one… Making you feel, for even a minute, like you weren't good enough. Sure, she's an academic genius, and maybe she understood you in ways that no one else could, back at East High. But, she used that intelligence, and the understanding and trust that you gave her, to _hurt_ you. To ruin your self-esteem."

Troy's mouth opens, reflexively, to argue in Gabriella's defense, but something halts the words before they take form. Part of him has latched onto Ryan's words, the sense they make, the honesty backing them.

As harsh as those accusations are, is it possible that he's… _right_?

"She's a _bitch_ , Troy," Ryan says, and he's almost pleading, again. "And… " His voice drops. His eyes mist. Reaching up from Troy's shoulder, he caresses the curve of Troy's jaw, his touch feather-soft. "I wish I could get her out of your head, so she can't hurt you, anymore."

Troy's eyes mist with tears, as well. He can still recall how it felt to hold Gabriella's slight body in his arms, the smell of her perfume, the softness of her hair, the way it felt to dance with her.

 _"I'm a lot better at goodbyes than you."_

"I wish you could, too," he says. He's surprised by how much he means it.

Ryan strokes Troy's cheek with his knuckle. Deep sadness clouds his eyes, and Troy wants to wash it away.

He wraps Ryan back up in an embrace, needing his closeness, to share his own body heat with the perpetually cool to the touch blond, wanting to erase all of Ryan's concerns. And, at the same time, wishing that he wasn't such a mess. That Ryan didn't have to worry about him, on top of impressing the director, writer, and casting agent of that show. "I'll try," he swears. "For you, I'll try to be happy."

Ryan's hands come back up to give Troy's shoulder blades a gentle but powerful squeeze, as if he wants to transfer some of his own emotional strength to the brunet athlete. He presses his skinny chest against Troy's sturdy pectorals and sighs, "Ohh… Troy."

Troy anticipates a reprimand, Ryan withdrawing from him.

Instead, Ryan rests his cheek in the crook of Troy's neck. "You should be doing it for you, but… Thank you," he says softly. For the first time, his voice isn't full, calm, and certain. It's unsteady, and Troy realizes that Ryan is truly, genuinely scared of losing him.

 _Why?_ Troy's brain cries out. _Why do you want to keep_ me _around?_ When he notices Ryan trembling in his arms, he can't bear to give these anguished, feverish questions a voice.

.

Hot water surges against Troy's breastbone. He angles into the spray, letting it wet his hair and hit the middle of his back. His mind wanders to the lines he has to recite in Theater, the unit he's studying in Psychology. He thinks of burying his nose in Ryan's neck and drifting off to sleep.

"Hey, Bolton."

Troy jumps, his eyes stretching wide. As he turns to face his addressee, he wills his heart rate to slow down.

One of his teammates at Berkeley, a tall male with bronze skin, hazel eyes, and sleek, dark hair, stands before him. Soap suds, thick and foamy, cover his toned chest and stomach. "You made a good call, during practice."

"Thanks, man." Troy nods, a half-smile quirking his lips. It was his abilities as a strategist that ultimately lead to him earning his rank as captain of East High's basketball team. Without them, and his willingness to transform his body, he's certain he still would have been the target of merciless teasing and harassment in the locker rooms for being the coach's son.

He never anticipated these abilities being recognized so soon at Berkeley.

"Keep up the good work."

"I will." Troy dips his head and waits for his teammate to resume showering before turning back to his own bottle of body wash.

It's not exactly the crushing expectations that everyone at East High piled onto his shoulders, or the pedestal his peers placed him on before he had a moment to protest. He's no one's "hero", out here.

Except Ryan's, but he doesn't really mind living up to that title. Looking out for Ryan could never be a chore.

Yet… Troy finds himself torn. The last thing he wants to do is let his father at home, and his new coach and teammates at Berkeley down, but…

 _Quit moping_ , Troy chastises himself. _I need to finish showering and call my dad. He's going to want to hear all about the good impression I've made on the new team. Besides… I have no right to feel like this._ He squirts some of the thick blue substance onto his palm and works it into a lather along the length of his body. It's ocean-scented, which seems fitting. Given that he sort of feels like he's drowning. _I don't even know what I want._

Even as the thought crosses his mind, his brain is full of images of Ryan's ivory skin. He thinks of Ryan's wide, radiant smile, the effortless, sinuous movements of Ryan's hips when he dances, the smooth skin of Ryan's thumb caressing his knuckles, Ryan's chest pressed against his own. His body aches with want, yearning, _need_.

That he can't let himself feel. He can't, _won't_ hold Ryan back from achieving his dream. He stupidly, selfishly snatched one of Ryan's chances at stardom away from him, before, when he stole the lead in the East High winter musical of their junior year. He's been enough of a burden to Ryan, as it is.

 _And…_ Troy tells himself, rinsing the soapy suds off of his body. His heart is filled with sharp, jagged shrapnel that stabs into the healing mass of muscle, piercing and shredding it anew. He can't believe how much the mere idea _hurts_ , but his brain completes it, regardless; _He'd never want me, anyway._

.

Hearing the pride in his father's voice upon learning what happened in the showers at Berkeley fills Troy with pangs of homesickness. He misses his dad's barbecued ribs, and the conversations he and his dad would have while shooting hoops out back. He misses his mother's gentle but commanding presence, and her quiet way of keeping the house in order. He misses his parents' guidance, their wisdom, their approval.

He misses his treehouse; his boyhood sanctuary.

With the distance between Troy and everything familiar to him comes freedom.

Or, that's how it _should_ be.

Troy still feels the weight of expectations, people pushing him in a specific direction. He thought he could escape, possibly reinvent himself, but he can feel four metaphorical corners and sides rising up around him, closing in, ready to seal him up and package him away in the same box he fought so hard to break free of in high school.

He… He needs to see Ryan, hear his voice, talk to him about what he's supposed to do.

The moment he strides into the apartment complex, he books it to Ryan's door and knocks at it.

No response.

He knocks twice more, and when nothing but silence greets him, he pulls his phone out. His mind begins to race with scenarios, reasons for why Ryan isn't home, each more upsetting than the last, before the second ring is cut off by Ryan's light voice.

"Hello?"

Troy expels a relieved sigh. "Hey, Ry."

"Troy? Is everything okay?" There's that concern, again. "I'm at a dance class in walking distance. I can be back to the apartment in ten, fifteen minutes tops."

"Everything's fine. I just…" Troy pauses. "Dance class?" Something stirs within him at the words.

"Yeah," Ryan says and Troy can easily imagine the sheepish smile tugging at his candied lips. "I joined the other day."

An almost wistful ache seizes Troy's core. His body longs to move freely, expressively, twirling, prancing, limbs loose, no set, rigid routine to adhere to. Just the music filling him from head to foot and driving his body to the beat. He wants to _dance_ , again. "Is… Do they have an extra space open?"

"I believe they do."

"Freestyle?"

"Most assuredly." There's a pause, and Troy can feel his heart picking up speed. With hope, with the feelings that he isn't supposed to feel if he doesn't want to be a burden. "Troy."

"Yeah?"

"I could… If you're looking for a partner, I wouldn't mind- I'd… I'd love to dance with you."

"I-I don't know how to waltz, or anything." Troy's heart beats loudly. He rubs at the back of his neck, his cheeks warm, and leans against the doorframe of Ryan's apartment. Gabriella had to teach him how to waltz, so he wouldn't make a fool of himself, or _her_ , at the prom. He can't even imagine how humiliating it would be to mess up something so rudimentary in front of someone as skilled as Ryan.

Ryan scoffs. "That's ridiculous. You're a _natural_. I barely had to choreograph you for the spring musical."

This is news to Troy. All he can recall is an ever patient and understanding Ryan guiding him through every step of a simple move that he repeatedly screwed up every time he rehearsed it with Sharpay.

"That moonwalk in your callback audition, your _beautiful_ spin in the talent show at Lava Springs, you miming playing the piano in the spring musical… Your body just knows how to move."

Those seven words send pleasant shivers down Troy's spine. The shivers hit his stomach and ripples of warmth pool out, gradually trickling below his waistline. "Not…" He breathes, attempting to anchor himself to reality before he loses himself in the fantasies that have been dominating his brain with increasing frequency. He remembers holding Ryan in his arms, how in-synch they were and how easy it was to move, to dance, with Ryan as his partner.

 _"See?"_ Ryan's light voice had assured him. _"You've got it!"_

"Not like yours."

"That's from _years_ of practice. Believe me, Troy. You're incredible."

"Thanks, Ryan." Troy feels a genuine smile working its way across his face for the first time that day. He lets the confidence boost the compliment has engendered give him the courage to say, "I'd love to dance with you, too."

.

Troy slips into his seat near the back row of the house right as his Theater teacher, Mr. Elham, starts pacing the floor in front of the stage. " _The Glass Menagerie_ ," the man declares, his voice echoing throughout the auditorium,"is a powerful and iconic show, for both its characters, and its origin. It was highly biographic, you know. Tennessee Williams struggled, as many an actor and playwright is known to do, and it is struggle that can be a most powerful asset for any performer or patron of the arts. It roots a piece in humanity, allows an actor to empathize with the material, evokes an emotional response from the audience."

Troy can make out a few sniggers from his classmates as their teacher gestures dramatically. It reminds him of the snide remarks Chad always had equipped in his arsenal when Ms. Darbus launched into one of her infamously brain-numbing rants, back at East High.

"With no disrespect intended to Mr. Williams or his family's struggles, I thought we would rework the material, a bit. Ms. Vierra!" Mr. Elham turns, suddenly, to a girl sitting near the front of the room.

She looks up at the man, chomping irreverently on a piece of gum.

"Would you be so kind as to read for the part of Tom?" Mr. Elham offers her a playbook, and she stands up to take it and begins making her way onto the stage. "Spit out your gum, as well, please," he reminds her when she's halfway there.

A few more chuckles and giggles emit from the class.

The girl flips her hair, which is a bright shade of platinum blonde and styled in a pixie cut, out of her eyes, and turns around to hock her gum into a trash can.

"Ms. Rosalind Farris, please step on up and read for Amanda."

A girl with long waves of golden blonde hair that fall to her mid-back rises out of her seat and maneuvers through the aisles to retrieve a playbook.

"And…" Mr. Elham's eyes scan the rows of seats before landing on Troy. "Mr. Bolton!"

Troy's heart misses a beat.

"I'd like you to read for Laura."

There are snorts of laughter as Troy gets up and onto his feet. He can feel eyes on him all the way up the aisle. When he reaches Mr. Elham, he searches the man's face, half-wondering if his name being called was a mistake. All that meets him is a cool, measured gaze, and Troy figures that Mr. Elham is serious about including him in his interpretation of the show. He takes the playbook offered to him and joins his classmates on the stage.

"I'm Florence," the girl with the pixie cut says, catching Troy off-guard. She extends her hand in greeting.

"Troy." Troy clasps the hand and gives it a warm, friendly shake.

"You know," Florence says, scuffing her Converse against the stage floor. "Most guys would have argued that they wouldn't play a girl, if they had been put on the spot like that."

Troy shrugs. "It's called _acting_ for a reason, right?"

A grin tugs at Florence's lips. "Right."

Mr. Elham claps his hands, the sharp sound ringing out and reverberating off the walls. "Let's pick up from the beginning of Act One."

Everyone shuffles about, and the room is filled with the sound of pages turning. Troy cracks open his copy of the script and flips to the appropriate page.

.

"I'm reading for the part of Laura in _The Glass Menagerie_ ," Troy announces. His tongue flicks out to lick remnants of tea off of his lips, and picks up traces of honey and raspberry.

"Really?" Ryan's eyes shine, his voice brimming with enthusiasm.

"Yeah." That enthusiasm sets Troy's heart fluttering and brings a smile to his lips.

Ryan sits back, his brows furrowing contemplatively. "That was an interesting call for your theater teacher to make. But… Hey." He leans forward and reaches across his dining room table to clasp Troy's hand. "You'll make a fantastic Laura. You're exceptionally easy to sympathize with."

"Thanks, Ryan." Troy squeezes Ryan's hand, in return. He knows he's an unlikely candidate for the part of a frail young woman who has withdrawn from society to lose herself in fantasies and her emotional attachment to the show's titular menagerie of glass animals. But, hearing the reassurance from Ryan's mouth gives him confidence that he'll do the role justice.

"I mean," Ryan goes on, using his free hand to gesticulate, "you're breathtakingly beautiful, too, and that always helps."

Heat floods Troy's cheeks, and he's sure they're stained a deep pink.

As if noticing the effect his words have had, Ryan fumbles for a moment before continuing, "The… The most iconic tragic characters in film, plays, and literature are so heartrending and tragic because there's something beautiful about them. D-Deriving beauty from suffering is one of the oldest steeples of art, and… " He winces and pinches at the bridge of his nice. " _Fuck_. I'm rambling, aren't I?"

Troy closes his other hand over top of Ryan's. "I like it when you ramble," he tells him sincerely.

Pink blooms on Ryan's cheeks and spreads to his neck.

Troy thinks to himself that he's not only completely failing at not wanting Ryan, but loves him. So _much_ , it overloads his senses and takes his breath away.

.

It's been about fifteen minutes, give or take a few, since Ryan excused himself to the bathroom. Troy's supposed to be reading that fairy tale, the one about the brother and sister fleeing their wicked stepmother, and the brother being transformed into a fawn after drinking from an enchanted lake, but his focus is lax. His internal clock catalogues each minute that Ryan spends shut up in his bathroom.

And, the more time passes, the tighter the knot forming in Troy's stomach. He can't shake the unnerving conviction that Ryan's plate was _too full_ when he scraped what he wasn't going to eat into the trash.

Another sixty seconds goes by, and Troy finally pipes up, "Ryan? Are-Are you okay in there?"

There's silence, then shuffling, and the loud clatter of a porcelain toilet lid hitting against the porcelain bowl on its way down. "Yeah. Everything's fine. I'm… good," Ryan calls back. Something is off about his voice.

"Are you sure?" Troy asks, the tension knot in his stomach expanding. "You've been in there a while."

"I was just… fixing my hair."

Ryan always wears a hat. He has no need to worry about his hair. At least, not really. Troy can't bring himself to voice these thoughts, and everything that they insinuate, however. Not when his heart is throbbing and he can feel the surge of blood in his temples.

He runs through a mental checklist of all of the reasons a person could have for spending fifteen, going on sixteen minutes in the bathroom… why the lid of the toilet came down so swiftly as to collide loudly with the toilet bowl. He thinks of rumors regarding the Evans twins and eating disorders that made their way through the halls of East High, and his stomach lurches when his mind fixates on all of the layers Ryan wears.

Vests over dress shirts. T-shirts under dress shirts. T-shirts under polos, even in the sweltering heat of a New Mexican summer. Layers to conceal his body, because…

"Is it okay if I stay overnight?"

The toilet flushes, none too discreetly, and Ryan emerges. His face is a shade whiter than normal. "Of course," he says softly. "You're always welcome here."

Troy appreciates the assurance, and while he lets a smile play on his lips, he wants nothing more than to wrap his arms around Ryan and hold him tightly.

Keep him safe from all of the horrible scenarios flitting through Troy's mind.

.

As they settle into Ryan's twin size bed, clothed in their pajamas, Troy's front to Ryan's back, Troy wraps his arms around Ryan's waist.

Ryan stiffens minutely.

"You're staggering," Troy whispers, his lips brushing against the wisps of golden hair on the back of Ryan's neck.

"Hmm?"

"It's a song." Ryan snuggles into the embrace, tucking one hand under his pillow, and the jitters in Troy's chest die down. Troy takes Ryan's ease as his cue to sing in a hushed voice:

 _You're not a part of the scene_

 _You don't socialize_

 _You do your own thing_

 _You're ahead of your time_

 _Just the right speed_

 _You are staggering_

"The lyrics actually say she, but."

Ryan moves his arm to rest it over top of Troy's. His touch incites an outbreak of goosebumps along Troy's flesh.

Troy thinks he can just discern the faint sound of sniffling coming from the petite form snuggled against his chest.

"This isn't a dream, is it?" Ryan asks, his voice just above a whisper. "If it is, I don't want to wake up."

"It's real," Troy promises. He brushes his mouth against Ryan's earlobe, causing Ryan to shiver and arch into him, and nuzzles into the back of Ryan's neck. Ryan's sweet scent floods his senses. He scoots in closer, curling around the curves of Ryan's butt, relishing, cherishing the sensation of their bodies touching, of their heartbeats synchronizing. They fit together perfectly. It feels so _right_ , Troy wonders how he ever could have convinced himself not to want this. "It's _real_." This time, the reassurance is for himself.

.

Ryan stands at the sink, scrubbing the remnants of pasta sauce off of a plate. His Itunes library, set to shuffle, pulls up "Be Calm", by Fun. As Ryan sings along, Troy almost wishes he could crank the volume on the lead singer's vocals down to give Ryan's light, melodic voice more room to shine.

Finished with the plate, Ryan pauses to check that he didn't miss a spot, then hands the glassware off to Troy, who dries it and puts it away.

By the time the first chorus rolls around, the melody of the song has begun slithering its way into Troy's joints and muscle tissue. Troy is bobbing his head before he realizes it, and can see Ryan's hips swaying, shoulders bouncing, and his foot tapping, in his peripheral.

As the tempo picks up, Ryan does a little twirl, landing gracefully.

 _The moment I was baptized_

 _Or when I found out one day I'm gonna_

 _Die_

 _If only I could find_

 _My people or my place_

 _In life_

In time with the beat, Ryan taps his feet and scrubs at a bowl.

 _And when they come a-carolin'_

 _So loud, so bright_

 _The theremin_

 _Will lead us to a chorus where_

 _We'll all rejoice and sing a song that goes_

 _Oh_ , Ryan's voice sails out, liquid, pure. Troy finds himself diverting his attention completely from the silverware he should be drying, and turning to watch Ryan's performance. An enchanted smile spreads across his face.

He could watch Ryan thrive in his element forever.

 _Be calm_

 _Be calm_

 _I know you feel like you are_

 _Breaking down_

Ryan fixes Troy in a soft, intent gaze. His eyes shine with encouragement and understanding, and, heart stirring, Troy realizes that Ryan is directing the song's message at him.

 _Well, I know_

 _That it gets so hard, sometimes_

 _Be calm_

 _Take it from me,_

 _I've been there a thousand times_

 _You hate your pulse because it thinks you're_

 _Still alive_

 _And, everything's wrong_

 _It just gets so hard sometimes_

 _Be calm_

As if compelled by a force he can't pin a name on, Troy opens his mouth, and the lyrics are coaxed out of his throat. He takes the lower harmony to Ryan's high melody like it's second nature. Instinctive.

 _I don't remember much that night_

 _Just walkin', thinkin' fondly of you_

 _Thinkin' that the worst is yet to come_

 _And, from that street corner came a song_

Troy moves into Ryan until they're face to face.

 _And, I can't remember the man,_

 _The panhandler, or his_

 _Melody_

Hand sliding down Ryan's arm, leaving a trail of goosebumps in its wake, Troy takes hold of Ryan's hand and interlaces his fingers with the blond performer's pale digits.

 _The words exchanged had far exceeded_

 _Any change I'd given thee_

Troy lifts the entwined appendages to his chest because it feels right. He can hear his own voice swelling around him, and that feels overwhelmingly _right_ , too. His ears ring and his blood zings with exhilaration. Searching Ryan's eyes, he sees nothing but joy and pride shining in those baby blues.

"I _really_ missed hearing you sing," Ryan says. He's breathless, but smiling, his happiness almost palpable.

"Me, too," Troy says, meaning it more than he ever thought he could. "I really missed singing, too."

.

With Nickelback's "Far Away", funneling into his ears through his earbuds, Troy shifts his Psychology textbook off of his lap and reaches over to grab some light, recreational reading material; "Roses and Bones", a compilation of three books by Francesca Lia Block. It's sort of bizarre and melancholic, as far as "recreational reading" goes, but the prose is enchanting, poetic, and the descriptions are lush and so vivid in their extravagant detail. It's sort of like a collection of fairy tales set in the modern world. Troy is sure that Ryan will love the book. He plans to lend his copy to him once he's finished.

He slumps down into a chair at the back of Berkeley's auditorium, so far that his legs touch the back of the chair in front of him. He's reading the second of the three books in "Roses and Bones", when he feels a light prod on his shoulder.

"Hey, Troy."

Troy whips toward the source of the call to find his classmate, Florence, standing at his shoulder.

"Are you a singer?" Florence asks, chomping on a piece of gum.

East High's "Basketball Guy" Troy would have declined immediately, might have even thrown in a disbelieving laugh, for good measure.

College Troy, who doesn't want to be defined by the labels other people have chosen for him, thinks about how natural and wonderful singing with Ryan felt, earlier that morning, and answers, "Yeah. I think so. Why?"

Florence leans in, setting one of her hands on the armrest of Troy's chair. "My boyfriend and I are going to a karaoke bar, this Saturday. Since you're playing my sibling in the show, I thought it would be good for the two of us to spend some time together, outside of class, and get to know each other."

Troy nods, his eyebrows elevating. That sounds reasonable.

"You're more than welcome to bring a date, or whatever. What do you say?" A light blue bubble of gum inflates, obscuring Florence's face before popping loudly. Florence's eyes- hazel, Troy realizes- are expectant, but warm. Not demanding in the way that Troy became accustomed to, in high school.

"Sure," Troy says, returning the warmth in her gaze via an easy, friendly smile. "I'm game."

"Fantabulous." Florence's smile reveals itself for the first time since Troy met her, and it really is a lovely smile, but Troy's mind wanders to Ryan. His "date".

Provided Ryan is just as "game"… and available.

.

Troy can hear the whirr of the treadmill and the pounding of Ryan's feet as they smack against the track, even over his music. Staccato breaths wheeze out of Ryan's lungs. It's an upsetting sound, to say the very least. Troy slows his own workout to a light jog. "Hey." He forces his fear that Ryan was "purging", the other night, back, to the best of his abilities. "Is everything okay, Ry?"

"I'm… fine," Ryan gets out between pants.

"You don't usually push yourself this hard."

"If I want… to be the lead… in that show, I have to look my best. Be… slim. Fit."

"Ryan, you already look amazing," Troy tells him honestly, his heart rate kicking into a frantic, unsteady pace. "And, you have incredible stamina. Not many people can just dance for hours, like you can.

"Shar…" Ryan's feet scrape the track, and Troy has to control his features to keep them from contorting in a wince.

He wants to reach out and pull Ryan off of the treadmill, take him back to the apartment and make sure that he puts food into his body, and tell him over and over again how perfect he already is until he believes it.

"Sharpay weighs one-hundred five pounds."

"That's not healthy," Troy says. He doesn't think his stomach can sink any lower. Ryan is wearing a t-shirt under a tracksuit, even in California's heat. Even with the sweat beading on his forehead and dripping down his face.

Alarm bells are going off in Troy's head. He can't let either one of them ignore this, anymore. Leaping off of his own treadmill, Troy comes to Ryan's side. "Ry, can I talk to you? In _private_."

Feet skidding and arms flailing, completely off-balance and out of rhythm as his eyes meet Troy's, Ryan relents. He stumbles off of the machine. Where his cheeks should be pink and flushed from exertion, they're colorless; another red flag that something is really, _really_ wrong. Troy leads Ryan to the locker room, turning back to make certain that Ryan isn't swaying, or on the verge of passing out en route.

"You've gotta be frying in all of those layers, huh?"

"I'm fine," Ryan repeats robotically.

Shaking his head, certain that Ryan is _not_ fine, Troy steers him around a corner. He checks and double-checks to ensure that they're alone. It occurs to him that this adamant insistence that everything is peachy keen and hunky dory is a byproduct of growing up in a household with parents who spent most of their time traveling the world, away from their kids, and neglected Ryan in favor of his sister during the rare instances that they were around.

Having East High's "Ice Princess" in all her cold, high-maintenance, demanding, and oftentimes petrifying glory, as his twin sister likely didn't help matters, either.

Troy's mother and father always tried to get Troy to open up about his feelings. Troy doubts that Mr. and Mrs. Evans ever even _tried_ to have heart to heart discussions with their children. If issues came up, they probably just slapped on their perfected white smiles and pretended that… everything was "fine".

"Can I see you with your shirt off?" He asks quietly. Heat flares, unbidden, in his cheeks, but he can't linger on the alternate meaning of his query. On how his body reacts to the mere idea of Ryan's ivory skin being exposed.

Ryan is stunned, pink staining his face, as well, and immediately recoils. "Y-You don't want to see me with my top off."

"Can you please just lift your shirt up for me, Ry?" Troy presses as leniently as he can manage with his heart pounding and stomach churning. He feels like he's going to be sick.

Ryan's lips tremble. The bloom of color drains from his face, leaving it pallid, almost ghostly. His exterior is an accurate reflection of the storm raging inside of Troy, and Troy almost wants to rescind the request, but before he can find the words to do so… Ryan complies. He unzips the jacket of his tracksuit with a shaking white hand and slips out of it, letting it fall to the floor with a muffled _thunk_. He looks into Troy's eyes, his gaze searching, pleading.

Troy moves closer to shield him from potential prying eyes. "It's okay," he breathes. "I won't let anyone else see you."

With the faintest of nods, Ryan draws in a quavering breath and closes his hands on the hem of his loose-fitting white t-shirt. He lifts it up fast, like removing a Band-Aid. Visible ribs, a flat, almost concave stomach so white, it looks like it's never seen the sun, and an all-too prominent pelvis bone, all marred by faint bruises, come into view. Goosebumps prickle the hair on Ryan's exposed, trembling arms, and Troy's heart cracks into a million pieces.

They don't say anything. They don't need to.

Troy sees the moisture swimming in Ryan's eyes, and swallows around the lump forming in his own throat. "This isn't okay, Ry," he says softly.

"I know," Ryan answers, his eyes fixed on the floor.

"You… You don't even know how attractive you are. Ryan, you're _beautiful_. You don't need to waste away to… _Fuck_." Feeling the ground sway beneath his feet, Troy steps forward and places his hands over top of Ryan's where they hold his shirt up to his chest. He guides the shirt back down over Ryan's body, and stooping down, retrieves the powder blue jacket from the locker room floor. He drapes it around Ryan's shoulders and Ryan offers him a near silent, "Thank you", as he pulls the garment snug around himself, clearly chilled by the AC blasting out of the vents.

"I want you to stick around for a long, long time, too, you know," Troy says.

Ryan is quiet, but Troy can see the impact of his words as thin trails of tears slip down Ryan's cheeks.

Troy wipes them away with the pads of his thumbs. "Lunch is on me, today, okay?"

Ryan nods and sniffles quietly. "Did you mean that?" He asks as they're leaving the locker room.

"Hm?"

"That I'm beautiful?" There's such fragility, such _hope_ backing the question.

"Of course I did," Troy promises. He peers into Ryan's eyes, praying that his sincerity gets through to him. "You're going to be on so many stages and screens. Your face will be in pages, on billboards, and people all over the world will be awestruck that someone so brilliant and staggering-"

Ryan smiles at the reference to the song, his eyes shining.

"-exists. You're gonna break hearts, Ry."

Laughter bubbles up from Ryan's throat until fresh tears streak down his face.

Troy heeds his inclination to kiss them away, uncaring who sees.

.

"Peanut butter and jelly sandwiches?" Ryan asks, a delighted gleam about his features.

"My specialty." Troy smiles and sets two plates down in front of Ryan and himself, on the kitchen table in his apartment.

"I don't think I've had one of these since I was in elementary school." Ryan studies the sandwich in front of him like it's a sacred childhood relic- something he's almost afraid to touch, as if it will crumble to dust if he so much as pokes it with the tip of his finger.

"You poor rich kids," Troy teases lightheartedly as he bites into a half of his sandwich. "Missing out on the best of life's simple pleasures."

It feels a bit less like a joke once spoken aloud and permitted to resonate, but Ryan simply smiles and lifts up one half of his own sandwich. He runs a finger along the edge, collecting the viscous fruit preserve as it drips down the side of a section of crust. He licks at it curiously, and his eyes light up like a kid's on Christmas morning. "Strawberry?"

"Your favorite, right?"

Ryan beams in response and tucks in. Troy couldn't be happier as he watches every dainty bite Ryan takes. He can't even complain when he leaves bits of the crust behind.

"I have something else for you," Troy says once they've polished off the small lunch. Ryan's eyes follow him curiously as he moves to retrieve a slip of paper from the cupboard overlooking his stove. "I remembered you saying that Gabriella's mom 'makes the best brownies in the entire world'." He doesn't have to look to know that Ryan has ducked his head, chagrin overtaking his features.

"Troy, that was-"

"A massive misunderstanding." The feelings raging inside of Troy during that encounter- bewilderment, hurt, betrayal, jealousy, and a fluttering in his stomach that wasn't engendered by his girlfriend's sweet, girlish voice and smile, but by a compliment delivered to him courtesy of his awkward but nevertheless beguiling blond classmate- resurface all too easily when he thinks back on that day. With time and distance, however, he's come to regard everything from Ryan and Gabriella's close proximity and easy laughter, to his own clenched jaw and stomach pulled tight like a drum, in a new light. "Gabriella played us both."

"Like fiddles," Ryan mutters, his inflection harsh and biting. He's quiet for a second, as if ruminating, then his tone softens. "Hey. Troy, are you…?"

Troy shakes his head. "This isn't about her." He removes the slip of paper and closes the cupboard behind him. He hands the slip to Ryan and observes his reaction, his heart on edge.

"This-" Ryan starts. "This is…"

"I snagged the recipe for Mrs. Montez's brownies. I wanted to give it to you after we became friends, that summer. But I got so caught up in…" Troy swallows. He can still recall how rocky the first two weeks following his and Gabriella's break-up and subsequent reunion were. She didn't trust him right away, and cast penetrating, haunting glares in his direction and subjected him to icing outs and silent treatments if she thought he was spending too much time around Sharpay, regardless of the measures he took to avoid the blonde girl at all costs. College, Troy's future after high school, they became after thoughts. Almost all of Troy's focus, determination, and effort on and off the clock at Lava Springs went into repairing his fractured and frayed relationships with Gabriella, Chad, and the Wildcats.

He had to prove to them where his loyalties- and priorities- lay.

"Other things," he finishes tightly. "I never got the chance to…"

"It's okay." Ryan vacates the table and comes to Troy's side. He squeezes his bicep, and Troy relaxes into the contact, the tension leaving his muscles. "I know that summer was stressful for you. More than it ever should have been."

"Yeah. Maybe." Troy was the one in the wrong. He was the "jerk with new shoes". Yes, he wanted to be prepared for the future hurtling toward him, perhaps even have some measure of control over it, but he never should have blown off his friends, or Gabriella, in order to gain a scholarship he's still not even sure he deserved, to a school his father had chosen _for_ him. He deserved what he got- the alienation, the dirty looks, the cold shoulders, the names hefted at him.

"No." Ryan's voice hardens just perceptibly. "Troy, you…" He sighs. "Your friends were assholes. You didn't do anything wrong. I know you won't believe me, not right away, but I promise that you caring about your future wasn't a bad thing."

"That's what my dad said."

"I don't know your dad well enough to attest to his accuracy, overall, but he was right on that point. Didn't Gabriella also prioritize her future when she applied for the Freshman Honors Program at Stanford? And, when she moved away to accept her early enrollment? No one gave her a hard time about that, right?"

"Yeah," Troy replies quietly.

"Why is it fair, then, that they were so hard on you?"

Troy bites at the inside of his cheek. Once again, he can't offer up an argument, a defense. He knows that Ryan is right.

"Your dad got at least one other thing right," Ryan goes on. He shifts to meet Troy's eyes with his own. "He helped bring you into the world."

Troy's heart floods with what he finally allows himself to recognize as _love_. He searches Ryan's eyes, and knows that he wants to be able to peer into their sky-colored depths and see the wisdom, the honesty, the affection, perhaps even the _love-_ because that's the label Troy wants so badly to, hopes he can slap on the intensity backing Ryan's looks and his attempts to break past the haze of self-loathing clouding Troy's brain. _Love_ \- brimming there, for the rest of his life. He smiles, affected, and Ryan amply reciprocates it.

Ryan's gaze moves to take in the top of Troy's head, and his soft smile takes on a subtle flirtatiousness. "Has anyone ever told you you look unbelievably sexy with a bandana on?"

For the first time since putting it on, that morning, Troy becomes aware of the light blue piece of cloth tied around his head to keep his hair from flying all over the place and into his face. He's sure he's blushing all the way to the tips of his toes. "Only you, Ry," he remarks, giving Ryan a light nudge.

Ryan reaches up and runs his fingers along the stretch of cloth. His voice takes on an almost husky quality as he murmurs, "Good. I wanted to be the first."

It takes all of Troy's willpower to not pull him into a searing kiss.

.

Restful sleep evades Troy. His subconscious opts to revisit the specter of him missing the crucial final shot in a state championship game at East High, and create a new, upsettingly _real_ vision of Troy coming out to his father and Chad, only to be disowned and scorned. Their once familiar and inviting features contort with hate and disgust.

 _"You're no son of mine," his dad spits._

 _"Get out of my face, you fucking fag," Chad adds._

 _Troy, horrified, turns and sprints away from them, running until his lungs burn and his sides feel as though they will cave in on themselves. He finds himself in the auditorium at East High, and relief sweeps through him as he spots Ryan on the stage, his porcelain skin glowing under a spotlight. "Ryan!" He calls, his eyes damp. "I'm so glad I found you! I-"_

 _"I'm sorry. Who are you?" Ryan asks._

 _Troy promptly deflates. "Ry, c-come on. It's me._ Troy _."_

 _Ryan shakes his head, his gaze cold. "You're not Troy._ That's _Troy." He whips his head toward a poster of Troy shooting a basket during their senior year._

 _The very poster Troy tore off of the wall in the cafeteria as his insides churned with heated self-loathing._

 _"You're no one," Ryan says placidly as he exits the stage. "You don't even exist."_

 _As if summoned by his words, white engulfs the stage beneath Troy's feet, and wraps around his legs. It tethers him in place, no matter how hard he struggles, and slithers up his thighs, encasing him. He calls for help, reaching toward Ryan's retreating figure, but Ryan doesn't even turn around…_

When Troy awakens, his quilt is tangled around his legs, and his bare torso is slick with sweat. He's removed the picture of Gabriella from his nightstand, so there are no eyes to meet his through the darkness shrouding his bedroom.

There's nothing at all but the unsteady thudding of his pulse.

He considers getting out of bed, throwing on a shirt and a pair of sweats, and walking across the hall to Ryan. He _wants_ to. But, he remembers Gabriella's furious, " _go to bed_ ", and remains where he is, deciding that discussion of his fucked-up subconscious isn't worth disturbing Ryan's sleep.

Instead, he contemplates his earlier gut-wrenching revelation, and arrives at a possible solution.

.

"You want to be my personal trainer?"

"Yeah. We have different body types- in the best way," Troy adds when Ryan begins to wilt. "But, I think I picked up a few things from my dad that could come in handy. Plus, I helped train a few of the younger kids on the team, last year. Like Rocketman."

"Are you sure that wouldn't overwhelm you?" Ryan's eyes cease scanning the walls of Troy's bedroom long enough to focus on his face.

Troy nods resolvedly. "Nothing involving you could ever overwhelm me. Besides, you're already active. It's just a matter of making sure you don't overwork yourself, and regulating your caloric intake."

Ryan bites back a grin.

"What?" Troy asks, embarrassment heating his cheeks.

"Nothing, just… I can't believe Taylor ever called you a 'lunkhead'."

It shouldn't come as a surprise. Even on double dates with Chad and Gabriella, Troy and Taylor hardly interacted, and despite her attending games to see Chad in action and support the school, Taylor never hesitated to voice her distaste for the privileges extended to athletes, and often expressed a desire to see funding for the athletic department decreased across the board and more financial aid offered to the sciences.

Troy honestly can't find fault with either of these sentiments. However… "You know how high school kids are. They judge everyone-"

"-based on appearances," Ryan finishes simultaneously. His mouth twitches into a grimace. "I know only all too well."

"Good thing they were wrong about both of us, huh?" Troy takes a seat beside Ryan on the bed.

"Yeah." Ryan leans back on his arms and turns to face Troy, a soft smile lighting his countenance.

Troy is leaning in, bracing himself to close off the distance between them, heart inching toward his throat, when his phone erupts, shattering the moment and sending both Troy and Ryan scrambling. Biting back a frustrated expletive, Troy fishes his phone out of his pocket and recognizes the Bolton household number on the screen. "I'm sorry, Ry."

"It's fine." Ryan's face is flushed, and his words have a breathless quality to them, but Troy can't ruminate on what either of these things mean, or on the heat curling around his abdomen.

He shoves the twinges of arousal back and takes the call. "Hello?"

His mother's voice greets him, brimming with warmth. "Troy, honey. How are you?"

"Hey, mom." A smile spreads across Troy's face. He can't believe how much he's missed her voice. "I'm good. Everything's good." It doesn't feel entirely like a lie, anymore.

"Your dad was raving on about how some boy on your basketball team complimented your leadership skills."

Troy's heart sinks, a bit. "Oh yeah?"

"He's very proud of you, Troy. We both are."

"Thanks, mom."

"And, how are your other classes?"

"Fine. I'm uh," Troy glances toward Ryan, and the words just slip out. "I'm in a play."

"Oh?"

"Yeah."

"That's exciting news! I'm sure your dad will want to see it."

"Are you sure?" Troy almost slaps himself for giving his doubts a voice. He can feel Ryan's eyes on him, and knows that Ryan's neatly groomed eyebrows are furrowing, countless questions flitting across his features.

He never should have asked that, but it's too late to retract it.

"Of course. I know he hasn't always been the most eager to accept your interest in performing, but he does care, Troy. He'll be proud of you for this, too."

"Thanks, mom," Troy repeats, because he can't think of any other response that suffices.

"Now, how about food?" Troy discerns faint rustling as his mother shifts the phone onto her shoulder, and the sound of water running in the background. He imagines her at the sink, doing the dishes, or preparing dinner, and a fresh wave of homesickness rolls in. "Are you getting enough to eat?"

"Yes, mom. Everything's fine. Really."

"All right. Your dad and I miss you very much."

Troy wonders if Mr. and Mrs. Evans have called to check in on their son. He sees Ryan trying and failing to mask the wistfulness that has infiltrated his soft features, and figures that they haven't. Of course they haven't. Hell, when Ryan is out of their line of sight, he might as well not even exist.

Troy's grip on his phone tightens, and his homesickness is tainted, twisted by grinding anger. "I miss you guys, too." The words are choked, and he didn't mean for them to be, but fuck parents who don't actually care about their kids, and fuck everyone who ever made Ryan feel that he was ugly and inferior. "Hey, mom," Troy begins, and once more, he doesn't need to stop and think about it. The question just rolls off his tongue. "Can I bring a guest back for winter break?"

His mom can't quite disguise her puzzlement. "You know we've never had a problem with Gabriella-"

"I'm not talking about Gabriella." It hits Troy, then, that he hasn't told either of his parents about the dissolution of his relationship- that the reason he chose this school one thousand miles away from everything he's ever known, hasn't spoken to him in weeks.

Ryan is sitting at rapt attention, his mildly alarmed stare grazing Troy's back.

"Troy? Did something happen…?"

"I'll explain everything over break, mom. I promise. Just know that I have this amazing friend who is really funny, and smart, and you're gonna love him."

 _Him_. It's perilously close to an admission, and Troy's heart almost catches in his throat.

If his mom has caught on to what that pronoun alludes to, however, she gives nothing away. "Okay, honey. Let your friend know that he's more than welcome to join us."

The twisting anger, anxiety, and homesickness are all effaced. Troy can't contain the wide grin that dominates his features. "Thanks, mom. You're the best. Love you."

"Love you, too. You and your friend take care, all right?"

"We will," Troy promises, and the call disconnects.

"What was that all about?"

"Well…" Troy drops back onto the bed beside Ryan, letting their arms and hips touch. Ryan makes no move to distance himself; something that comes as a massive relief to Troy. "You're joining us for break… unless you have other plans."

Ryan shakes his head adamantly, a brilliant smile already in place. "Not at all! I'm thrilled. Honored, even. I… wow. Really?"

Troy almost chuckles. "Yes, really. And… this girl in my theater class, Florence, invited me to a karaoke bar."

"O-Oh?" Color drains from Ryan's face, and there's an unmistakable flash of jealousy in his eyes.

"With her and her _boyfriend_." Troy emphasizes the word, giving Ryan a light nudge. "She said I could bring a date, and it's this Saturday. I was wondering if you wanted to…"

"Be your date?" Ryan's inflection is calm, but there's no ignoring the hope that flares like the brightest, most intense of fires, in his eyes.

Troy is suddenly sheepish. He's so close to having the most beautiful, wonderful date in the world, but his insecurities come crashing back over him, draining the warmth right out of his bloodstream and leaving him cold and anxious. "Y-Yeah." He rubs at the back of his neck. "If you- If you want to."

" _Of course_ I want to. You have no idea how long I've waited to… " Ryan's hand finds Troy's, and gives it a reassuring squeeze. "Yes," he affirms. "Absolutely."

Ease and contentment begin to ebb through Troy's body, and though they mostly replace the doubt and insecurity, there's still a fear of messing up somewhere down the road, a deeply rooted concern that Ryan will suddenly come to his senses and realize that Troy Bolton isn't all that he's been cracked up to be, and ultimately abandon him for greener pastures.

Just like Gabriella did.

.

Troy tugs his over-shirt, a blue and gray flannel, on, and runs a hand through his hair. He double-checks his reflection, smooths any remaining wrinkles out of his white t-shirt and black jeans, and grabs a light jacket- for Ryan- and the keys to his truck. He fires off a text to Ryan, asking if he's ready, and shoves his keys into his pocket. Nervous energy fizzes through him. He hasn't been on a first date since the first time he took Gabriella out to dinner after rehearsals for the East High winter musical.

Back then, everything felt so easy. Gabriella alleviated the pressure stacked on Troy's shoulders instead of piling onto it. They laughed over a pizza, and Troy could imagine spending the rest of his life staring into her liquid brown eyes…

Troy's just locked the door to his apartment and is about to walk across the hall and rap at Ryan's door, when Ryan emerges. He's wearing a light blue dress shirt that hugs his torso in all of the right places. The lights in the hallway reflect off of a pattern sewn into the fabric of the shirt that appears to be constructed out of some kind of luminous material. Black skinny jeans held in place by a white belt with a silver buckle clothe his lower half, and his hat- blue with white pinstripes- is titled at an angle that highlights the softness of his features.

He's so striking, it takes Troy a second to realize that his breath has hitched in his throat. He blinks a few times to pull himself back to reality.

"H-How do I look?" Ryan asks. He does a partial twirl, and, yeah, his jeans are _definitely_ clinging to his butt and hips in the most flattering way.

"Like a heartbreaker."

A smile immediately lights up Ryan's face, and though he ducks his head shyly, he makes no move to disguise how the comment has affected him.

Troy crosses over and offers Ryan his arm. Ryan takes it, his hold secure, and the nervous fizzing subsides.

.

Florence is seated at a table next to a tall man with long, dark hair, and matching scruff on his chin. She waves Troy and Ryan over as soon as she spots them. "You look sharp," she says, her eyes flitting over Troy. "And, your date is a cutie," she adds, giving Ryan a wink.

"Thanks," Troy says, because Ryan is at a loss, and he similarly can't think of a better response with what he's sure is an obvious blush darkening his face. "Ryan, this is Florence, and-"

"Tom," Florence supplies.

Her date takes his name as his cue to reach around her and offer a huge hand. Ryan and Troy take turns shaking it.

"The fact that he happens to share a name with the character I'm reading for didn't escape either of our notice," Florence says.

Ryan's mouth quirks with laughter.

Troy unleashes a private sigh of relief. If Ryan and Florence couldn't get along, he would have had to pull the plug on the entire get-together.

"So you're a theater kid, too?" Florence asks Ryan as Troy pulls a chair out for him.

Ryan catches Troy's eye for just a second to express his gratitude and flattery over the gesture, then lowers himself into the chair. "Yeah. I'm, uh, trying to land a part in a show."

"No kidding!" Florence leans across the table, chomping loudly on yet another piece of gum.

"He has a callback," Troy chips in as he drapes his jacket on the back of Ryan's chair and drops into the seat across from Tom.

"Congratulations!" Florence smiles, and it's sincere, not the catty sort of smile belying malicious intent that Troy has come to expect from performers after two school years of dealing with Sharpay Evans's territorial behavior and massive ego.

Tom nods in silent agreement.

"Thanks." Ryan ducks his head bashfully and Troy reaches over to squeeze his shoulder and jostle him lightly.

Ten or so odd minutes later, the group has all but polished off a large basket of chicken and cheese quesadilla bites. Ryan and Florence are engrossed in a discussion of _The Great Gatsby_ \- which film adaptation is superior, and a possible interpretation of the book's text that involves one of the characters being homosexual. It's like they've known each other for years, rather than having met for the first time only about eleven minutes ago.

Troy can't help but feel a small trill of delight. He knows that Ryan spent so much time trailing after Sharpay, being _eclipsed_ by her, he developed a reputation as her "poodle"; a reputation that Troy's best friend only exacerbated. This label unceremoniously tattooed onto Ryan's back acted as a strong deterrent when it came to him making his own friends. The fact that "East High's Primo Boy" never really found the balls to say "fuck it" and befriend Ryan, regardless, still eats at Troy. He wonders how much easier things could have been on both of them if he had just reached out to Ryan during their freshman year. Thrown meaningless nonsense like cliques, and the status quo, and social ladders to the wind, and just asked Ryan if he wanted to hang out after school and play video games, sometime, or watch Troy's copy of _To Kill A Mockingbird_.

Ryan would have understood Troy's admiration of Atticus Finch in ways that Chad and even Gabriella never could.

Despite his pondering, Troy manages to nod along and smile indulgently or supportively when it feels appropriate, until he notices Tom keeping to himself. He tunes out Ryan and Florence's increasingly passionate debate, and shifts his focus to the fourth occupant of the table. "What do you do?" He asks, grabbing one of the bowls of salsa and dipping a quesadilla bite into it.

"I'm a music major with a minor in art."

Troy bites into the tortilla and nods approvingly. "What kind of music?"

"Alt. Rock."

"That's really cool, man." Troy catches himself talking with his mouth full, and while Ryan has never chastised him for it, he hopes he doesn't look like an asshole.

If Tom thinks so, he does nothing to hint at it. "Thanks," is all that he says, a hint of a smile tugging at his lips, and while the facial hair does nothing for Troy, he can easily see what drew Florence to Tom.

In the background, a session of karaoke comes to a close. Troy chooses this moment to look up, and spies a probing spotlight making its way around the room. It whisks by, uncomfortably close to their table, and his stomach lurches violently. A stabbing ache steals into his chest. "I…" he starts, then stops because his mind is racing, whirling, and all of his basic communication skills are leaving him.

"Troy, what's wrong?" He hears Ryan asking.

"Hey. Are you okay?" That's Florence, and Troy feels three sets of widened eyes on him, but his mind is elsewhere, filled with images of dark curls and a glittering turquoise sweater.

The spotlight dances past a second time, and Troy's heart takes off at a sickening pace.

"I can't- I can't-" he stammers, and his chair rakes across the floor as he scoots out from under the table and pulls himself to his feet. "I can't be here. I have to. I'm sorry, I just-"

Florence calls after him, alarmed, but Troy is rushing out, needing space, needing _air_ before the walls close in on him. He can't breathe, and his heart is going to explode. Burst right out of his chest. He pushes past the door and sinks to his knees outside, curling in on himself.

The voice of the emcee from that New Year's Eve at the ski resort in Colorado rattles around Troy's brain. _"Someday, you guys might thank me for this."_

It all comes back, scattershot; Troy being forced onto the stage at the urging of the crowd, meeting Gabriella's eyes, every time she left him, every time she hurt him, Gabriella kissing that other guy. He holds his head, fingers pressing, nails digging into his scalp as his heart races. The air he's desperately gulping down isn't enough. He's going to die. He's-

"Troy." Ryan's voice cuts in. It's his lifeline, and Troy clings to it. "Troy, you need to breathe through your nose. Slowly." Ryan drops down in front of him, and Troy feels Ryan's hands, cool and gentle, wrap around his own and remove them from his head. "Like this. In." Ryan inhales, his chest rising as it fills with oxygen, and Troy imitates him. "Out."

Ryan expels the air from his lungs gradually. Troy follows suit.

"In," Ryan says again, his voice lilting and beautiful.

Troy draws in another breath.

"Out."

Slowly, Troy lets the air exit his chest cavity through his nose.

"You don't have to do _anything_ that you don't want to do," Ryan promises, staring intently into Troy's eyes "If you want to leave, I'll tell Florence and Tom, and we can get in your truck, right now, and go wherever you want. Okay?"

Troy takes one more breath, feels his racing pulse beginning to slow, and nods.

"Okay," Ryan affirms.

"I'm really sorry," Troy murmurs.

"You have nothing to apologize for." Ryan squeezes Troy's hands and smiles softly. "But, when you're ready, I'd like to talk about what happened in there, so we can make sure we don't see a repeat of it."

No harsh, scolding language, or accusatory tone. No suggestion that Troy is a fucked-up freak that Ryan wants to sever all ties with.

"Alright." Troy lets Ryan help him to his feet, and doesn't let go of his hand as they walk back inside.

.

Berkeley's on-campus garden is _massive_. It's a forest, practically a miniature National Park. Troy could get lost here, soaking in the exotic, wildly diverse plant life, and while he's angry with himself for never venturing out here before now, he's glad that it's Ryan at his side, taking in the endless swathes of green with him for the first time.

They walk until they find a bench, and Troy offers his jacket to Ryan, who is beginning to shiver.

"Thanks," Ryan says.

"No, thank _you_." They settle down onto the structure simultaneously, and Troy combs his brain for an explanation of his spazzing episode. "I, uh," he begins, rubbing at the back of his neck. "I met Gabriella at a New Year's Eve party over Winter Break, during our junior year. It was at this ski resort in Colorado. We were 'volunteered'", he air quotes with his fingers, "to go onstage and sing a karaoke duet."

Ryan's brows arch.

"I can still remember this blinding spotlight hitting my face right before I was basically pushed onstage, and…" Troy shakes his head, trying to force the memory of hands on his arms, Gabriella's shy, earnest smile, and that emcee's laughter, out.

Ryan's hand twines around his. "Well, looks like we can scratch karaoke bars off the list of potential dating venues."

"You… want a second date?" Even after he ruined everything with his freakout? Even though he's a walking disaster? Troy's chest starts to tighten, a sinking feeling hitting his stomach.

Ryan's hold on his hand tightens tenuously. "And, more. Unless… " Doubt darkens his features. "You don't?" He bites at his shining lower lip, averting his eyes, and Troy can almost feel the dismay rolling off of him.

He scrambles to displace it. He doesn't want to ruin _this_ , too. " _No_! No. I do. I… love you, Ryan."

The admission has an immediate effect. Ryan's head jerks up and his eyes stare imploringly into Troy's, flitting over his face in a similar awe and disbelief to what Troy felt, earlier.

"I _love_ you," Troy goes on. The words pour out of him surprisingly effortlessly; a clear stream void of any debris to obstruct its flow. "And, I don't think I ever would have survived the last month without you. I just…" He squeezes at Ryan's hand, a lump rising in his throat. Fear fills him until he's leadened down and aching. "I don't want to be a burden on you."

"Troy, you could never _ever_ be one," Ryan promises, his voice just above a whisper. "The main reason I moved out here was to… I've-I've spent sixteen years of my life living in my sister's shadow. Last summer, I got my first real taste of independence. I was _finally_ recognized as my own person. I was Ryan without a 'Sharpay and', in front. I had my own friends, and…" His eyes glimmer softly. "Shar has had her heart set on New York and Broadway since she could pronounce them. I didn't… I didn't want to get out there and begin establishing myself, setting down roots, only for her to show up when she inevitably gets her act together, and revert things right back to the way they were for sixteen years. You… Troy, you're the only person who's made me feel like I made the right choice. You've supported me, and-" His Adam's apple dips as he swallows and chews at the interior of his lower lip. Fear is filling him, too. "That other day, in the locker room, you- I-I-"

Troy runs the back of his free hand along the ridge of Ryan's cheek. His throat is constricting, but the piercing ache in his chest accompanying the constriction isn't entirely painful. It's more of a tug, an urge that he can't deny himself, anymore. He breathes in and lets his overflowing heart take the wheel.

His lips brush against Ryan's gently, giving him room to pull back, to reject him.

He provides him with an out.

Ryan refuses to take it.

Troy's heart splutters, just like the worn out engine of his pickup, as Ryan presses back into the contact, the fingers on one of his hands slipping into the spaces between Troy's, his other hand resting on Troy's back, bringing him in. Closer. His lips are so _soft_ , both like, and totally unalike Gabriella's. Sparks seem to shoot out from every spot where Ryan's flesh meets Troy's, and warmth surges through Troy, blocking out the chill in the nighttime air trying its damnedest to invade their veins. The sweet, endlessly enticing aromas of strawberry-scented shampoo, spring water, and a hint of something like lavender flood Troy's nose, and he drinks them in until he's thoroughly intoxicated. He can feel Ryan's lips parting, Ryan's tongue creeping out to rasp tentatively at his lips. He grants him access without any hesitation, craving, _needing_. He tastes chicken and cheese quesadilla, salsa, and the tang of lemon water mingled with the strawberry flavor of the gloss coating Ryan's lips and the overall warm taste of Ryan's mouth. It's stupidly amazing- better than anything in Troy's fantasies because it's so very _real_ and happening right now, and…

A pleased moan swells in Troy's throat and escapes before he can repress it. It peals out, almost alarmingly loud in the stillness of the night. But, he doesn't have time to be embarrassed at the way his body is reacting to the sensory overload.

Ryan hums into the kiss, seemingly in response, sending vibrations across Troy's lips and coaxing another moan out of him. Maybe this is obscene and voyeuristic, but Troy can't be bothered to care if Ryan doesn't.

And, Ryan's lips are still on his.

Emboldened, Troy's hand leaves Ryan's neck to settle in the valley just above Ryan's hips, and he rubs at the fabric clothing that valley, relishing the way the cotton shirt and the heat emanating from Ryan's skin feel beneath the pads of his fingers.

Once more, seemingly in response, Ryan's breath quickens and his hand begins to wander down the expanse of Troy's backside, stroke at the base of his spine, brush the tips of his fingers against Troy's tailbone, ball into the material of Troy's shirts, and as he shudders with pleasure, Troy is certain he could melt, spontaneously combust, or do both at the same time.

This is all he's wanted for weeks. Months. Since he first offered his hand to Ryan in the kitchen at Lava Springs.

When they finally part, breathless, Troy's heart pulses in his throat and his eyes flutter open to find Ryan staring into them.

"I love you, too," Ryan finishes, starry-eyed, his voice husky and face beautifully flushed.

Any and all somehow remaining tension exits Troy's muscles. He breaks into a grin and nuzzles the tip of his nose against Ryan's, a mixture of relief and contentment pooling throughout his insides as he latches onto those four beautiful words and locks them away in his heart to ease its frenzied pounding. This is all right. It's more than all right. He's not holding Ryan back, or weighing him down. He's _supporting_ him. He's lifting him up, and… "You are going to be _so amazing_ , Ryan. Who cares how famous Sharpay gets? She's not you. She's…" He kisses Ryan again, softer, because he knows he can, now.

Just like that day in rehearsals for the East High Spring Musical when Troy leaned in, desperate to convey something to Ryan that he didn't quite possess the right words to articulate, he's not so sure it's _Sharpay_ he's referring to.

"Yeah," Ryan murmurs, smiling as he litters light kisses on Troy's cheeks and the bridge of his nose. His eyes shine with love so intense, Troy wonders how he never caught on to it until now. "I'm _so glad_ you're still here, Troy," Ryan reiterates.

"Me, too," Troy is finally able to reply.

.

That night, the lilting intonations of Ryan's voice and the thrumming of piano chords as Ryan rehearses his piece for his callback audition, are the last things Troy hears before dozing off in Ryan's bed.

He slips into sleep with a faint smile on his face, his lips still tingling.

His slumber is dreamless.

.

One ring. Two. By the third ring, Ryan's face has fallen, all of the scant, fleeting hope leaving his features.

Troy's hears Sharpay's voice, infuriatingly chipper and showman-esque, _exactly_ like her parents, rattling off the message for her voicemail.

Before the _beep_ designating the spot to "leave a message", Ryan hangs up. "I don't know why I even bothered." He sighs heavily, so downcast, his entire posture suffers.

Troy lays his hands on Ryan's shoulders and kneads at the lean muscle underneath, working the tension out. "You've got this, Ry. They're gonna love you."

"D'you really think so?" Ryan's voice quavers and he makes no real effort to hide it. He's trembling ever so slightly, toying with the glinting silver buttons on his vest.

"I _know_ so." Troy kisses him on the temple, right beneath the brim of his fedora, and moves to stand in front of him. He grabs at the brim of the hat, tilting it up and out of Ryan's face to peer into his eyes. "I'll be right out there," he promises, nodding toward the house of the theater. He waits for Ryan's nod, a very subtle motion of his head, before saying, "You look amazing, and you're going to _be_ amazing. Alright?"

Ryan nods again, the motion stronger, more distinct. A light ignites behind his eyes.

"Break a leg, okay?" Troy rubs Ryan's shoulders one more time, and Ryan lifts his hand to squeeze Troy's. The linked appendages are the ones sporting their near identical class rings, and Troy can't believe he never really noticed that, either. He smiles and gives Ryan a last long look, trying to pour all of his faith in Ryan's abilities, and certainty that this will be _his_ night to finally rise above everyone who ever burned him, ever bruised him and left him with scars, into him.

As Troy is settling into a seat in the second row of the right section of the house, the curtain opens to Ryan seated at a gleaming black grand piano. His skin glows a brilliant ivory under the spotlight, the gold of his hair and pink of his lips and polished fingernails striking against it. He seeks out Troy, and when he finds him, Troy flashes him a supportive smile. A brief smile plays on Ryan's lips, in response. Then, he composes his features, takes a deep breath, and closes his eyes. His fingers glide across the keys, even without the aid of sight, and the opening chords of "Braille", by Regina Spektor sound from the instrument.

When Ryan sings, his voice soars out, filling the room with its fullness, its strength and power. Troy can feel each tremor of emotion- bitterness, anger, and unrelenting, aching sadness- resonate somewhere in his core, wrenching his insides.

The lyrics paint a story of two people who were completely ill-equipped to be parents making a mistake that they would regret forever, but Ryan's interpretation has a different message. It's both his expression of all of the pain inflicted on him by his peers, his family, the world, even himself, and his fuck you/send-off to those very people and the wounds they callously, carelessly, left behind.

Before the last note has completely died out, the house is filled with thunderous applause. Tears streak down Troy's face as he gives Ryan a standing ovation, and he isn't the only one wiping their eyes as Ryan rises from the instrument, a stricken smile spreading across his face, and dips into a low bow.

.

Mr. Elham calls out for everyone to take ten.

Rosalind removes her hand from Troy's back, and her face is curiously flushed as she fixes her hair and exits stage left.

"Troy!" Florence calls.

Troy sets down the glass unicorn figurine, Laura's most prized possession in the show, tracing over the spiral of its horn a final time before turning to meet her.

"Hey, I…" Florence stops a few feet away and chews at her lip. "I'm really sorry about Saturday night. If I'd had any idea you were-"

"There's no way you could have known. Even I didn't…" Troy slips his hands into the pockets of his jeans. "I met my ex-girlfriend at a New Year's party, a couple of years ago," he murmurs. "We were partnered up for a karaoke duet, not exactly by choice."

Florence's forehead crinkles. "It was a bad relationship, then?"

Is it that obvious? What scars does Troy have that Ryan and Florence can see, but all of East High was blind to? "It wasn't all bad." Troy traces the outline of a polished floorboard with the toe of his shoe. "At least, not at first. But…" He thinks of Ryan's voice instructing him to _breathe_ , and as he inhales, the tension knotting his stomach begins to unwind. "She and I aren't in contact, anymore."

"That's for the best, right?" Florence's voice is soft, and tears sting Troy's eyes.

"Yeah." He nods resolutely. "It is."

"Good." A smile tugs at Florence's lips, reaching her eyes. She rummages in the pockets of her leather jacket and extracts a stick of gum. As she shears off the foil wrapping and places the stick in her mouth, she says, "I really like Ryan. He's wicked smart, and cool, and he cares about you. A lot."

"Yeah." Troy already knows all of this, but hearing someone else describe Ryan as "wicked smart" and "cool", along with affirmation of the fact that Ryan truly does care about him from an outside party, fills him with a rush of pleasant feelings. "Ryan got the lead."

Florence's eyebrows elevate.

"In that show," Troy clarifies. "He's going to be amazing." Just recalling the potency of Ryan's callback audition is enough to give him goosebumps. Ryan is going to take the world by storm, and all Troy can ask for is the opportunity to stay at Ryan's side and support him all the way. Get to watch him shine.

"No shit," Florence breathes. "He's living the dream."

"Yeah." Troy grins, mostly to himself. "He's gonna conquer the world."

Florence runs her hand through her choppy platinum bangs. "Tell him I'm rooting for him."

"I will."

"Seriously, though. If you were still involved with a bitch who didn't treat you right, and caused you to freak out like that," Florence goes on, her face serious, "I'd have to come to blows with her."

Troy can feel the disbelief stretching his eyes wide.

"No one deserves to be treated like shit by their partner. Especially not a legitimately good guy like you." Florence holds Troy's gaze for a long moment, then, if only to provide some levity, lands a light punch on his bicep. "You're bringing Ryan to the Halloween bash, aren't you?"

"Yeah. Right. 'course."

"Rad. Costumes are optional, party starts at nine, and I'll text you the location."

"Awesome," Troy replies. It's bizarre to have the other party arranging everything after so many months of having to plot out the details and choose locations for every single one of his and Gabriella's dates, but strangely refreshing, as well. He watches Florence enter the backstage area and reaches into his pocket to pull out his cellphone.

It looks like he and Ryan won't be just staying in and watching horror movies, after all.

.

The "Halloween bash" is spent on the beach, drinking cider and hot chocolate, and eating some insanely good pumpkin cookies that Ryan made- Florence's eyes sparked with approval, both at Ryan's knee-high black combat boots, and upon learning that he had culinary skills, and a grin broke out on her face once she tasted his latest confection, leading to her eagerly shoving half into Tom's mouth so he could share in her revelry. Troy couldn't have been prouder if he tried- roasted pumpkin seeds courtesy of Florence and Tom, caramel apples from Rosalind and her mom, chocolate-covered pretzels, and various assorted candies.

Troy has suspicions that the cider has been spiked when he hears the uproarious laughter from Florence and some of the other theater kids at Berkeley, and Tom's guitar playing growing increasingly sloppy as the night progresses. These suspicions are confirmed when he tosses back a cupful and feels it burn, a bit, on the way down, before hitting his stomach. Warmth engulfs his limbs, leaving the tips of his fingers tingling.

Some of the theater kids begin executing the big dance routine from Michael Jackson's "Thriller", and Ryan, who has also downed a few shots of the adulterated cider, leads them, his agility astonishingly unaffected by the alcohol now coursing through his system.

With a bit of encouragement from Ryan and Florence- and Rosalind, who seems to be batting her eyes at him, but that could just be the cider talking- Troy joins in. He finds himself doing a somewhat messy replication of the maneuvers from "The Time Warp".

He stumbles into Ryan once or twice, on the "jump to the left" and pelvic thrusts, but Ryan simply laughs it off and guides Troy back into position. His hands linger on Troy's body for a discernibly lengthy stretch of time.

Thankfully, no one makes a single uninspired comment about them being "butt buddies", or "fruits", or something a lot more crude.

When the dancing is over and everyone is migrating around the bonfire to tell scary stories, Troy catches Ryan going for a third, or maybe fourth, cup of cider. He catches him by the shoulder and takes the red plastic cup out of his hand. "Mm-mm," he manages to get out around the pumpkin cookie he's holding in his mouth. "No more cider for you, mister. Eat." He bites down, taking one half of cookie into his mouth, and sticks the other half into Ryan's.

Ryan's lower lip protrudes in a pout around his mouthful. The mascara accentuating the curl of his eyelashes and the liner on his lower lash line have become smudged. While the look is most definitely very befitting of Halloween, Troy is fifty percent sure it's unintentional, and a sign that he and Ryan will be calling it a night, soon. "All of these cookies are going to make me faaaat," Ryan whines quietly. But, he chews his half of cookie up and swallows it down, regardless.

"You? Fat? Not even possible," Troy says firmly. His voice softens. "I'll get you some real food, Ry. I promise. Just no more cider, 'kay? You have rehearsals, tomorrow."

Ryan stares wistfully at the cup as Troy sets it back down on the fold-out table, but allows Troy to steer him away from it and toward a cooler sitting in the sand. Troy retrieves a bottle of water from the cooler and hands it over to him. "I'm not ruining your night, am I?" Ryan asks as he tries and fails to get a grip on the cap.

"Are you kidding?" With a flick of his wrist, Troy almost effortlessly removes the pesky cap. "Ryan, having you with me has been the single best part of my college experience."

Ryan stares into Troy's eyes for a long moment before laying a hand on the side of his face. Troy leans into Ryan's palm, savoring the contact just as he savored the hand Gabriella placed on his cheek right before she…

As if sensing the direction Troy's thoughts have taken, Ryan plants feather-soft kisses on both of Troy's cheeks, and finally, the bridge of his nose, like he did the night of their first kiss. Breaking off slowly, he arches up on his toes to touch his forehead to Troy's. "I love every wonderful freckle on your stupendously wonderful face, and I love you," he says. His eyes and skin catch the light of the stars glowing overhead, and he's beautiful. Like a being made from stardust.

A smile spreads across Troy's face, symptomatic of the love oozing through his insides to fill every vein, nerve, organ. Ryan is precious when he's drunk. "Love you, too, Ry. Now, come on." He takes hold of Ryan's hand and tugs him into his side. "Let's go get spooked."

Ryan spends most of the storytelling session curled into Troy's side, his head resting against Troy's shoulder. Draping an arm across Ryan's backside, Troy can't fathom ever wanting to be anywhere else.

.

Berkeley just beats the U of A Redhawks by two points.

Troy will never tell Chad that one of his calls contributed to the victory.

As the teams disperse, Troy jogs to catch up to his best friend. "Chad!"

The curly-haired boy starts, spinning on his heel to face him.

"Want to come to my place for dinner? Ryan is making roasted chicken and rice pilaf."

"So he cooks, too huh?" Chad asks flatly. The amusement tugging at the corners of his mouth and gleaming in his eyes negates his tone, however.

Troy breaks into a proud grin, only to find himself on the receiving end of a playful shove.

"Let me get changed, first."

.

"Bisexual?" Chad sits back at Troy's kitchen table, his brows crinkling. "That's a legit thing?"

Ryan shoots Troy a look that's somewhere between incredulous and not surprised in the slightest. "Yes," he says at the same time Troy replies, "Yeah."

"All it means is a person is attracted to the same, and the opposite sex," Troy provides. He runs a hand self-consciously through his hair, which is still damp from his shower.

"I thought that was something girls who want attention for being willing to play tonsil hockey with each other at parties, call themselves."

Ryan's jaw tightens, and Troy resists the urge to throw his head back in frustration. This is going… about as well as expected. Talking to Chad about the stuff that really matters tends to feel like speaking to a brick wall. A very hasty and judgmental brick wall. But, this needs to be done.

Troy steels himself, latching onto Ryan's hand under the table for reassurance, and prepares to do what he's always done best; take the plunge.

When he feels Ryan squeezing back, Troy breathes in and asks, "Do I look like an attention seeking party-girl?"

For probably the first time in all the years Troy has known him, Chad is rendered speechless. His brown eyes stretch almost comically wide, like they're about to pop out of his skull. It takes a moment for the words to register, and for Chad to convince himself he hasn't misheard.

During this moment, Troy swallows and clings to Ryan's hand. Adrenaline pumping, he's fully prepared for a freak out, for name calling, and shoves, and even threats, and he's bracing himself to leap to his feet and throw his body in front of Ryan, shielding him from the worst of it.

Chad's expression shifts, however, into something bordering on thoughtful. "I should've known," he says quietly.

"You're…" Troy starts, and he can't tell if it's his hand shaking, or Ryan's. "You're not mad, are you?"

" _Mad_?" Chad snorts. "No way, man. I always had the feeling you played for both teams." His eyes sweep over Troy and Ryan, and Troy gets the sense that Chad knows their hands are linked under the table without even having to check.

This is one of those moments where it's acceptable, more than okay, even, to have an emotional response, but Troy still feels like an idiot and an embarrassment when tears prick his eyes.

Ryan releases an unsteady breath that he likely wasn't even aware he was holding.

"Thank you," Troy says, his voice just above a whisper.

Chad shakes his head. "We're brothers, right? You'd do the same for me."

Troy nods, and kind of wants to take Chad and Ryan into a group hug, if only to feel both of their bodies against his and reassure Ryan and himself that this is real and they're going to be okay. He lets out an exhalation, as well, and turns to Ryan, smiling softly.

Ryan returns the smile.

"I'm gonna go dry my hair." Troy pushes his chair back with his legs and gets to his feet. He ducks under the brim of Ryan's hat and presses a kiss to his forehead, hoping to restore some of the color to his blanched face. "Be nice, okay?" He asks, looking into Chad's eyes. At the hint of exasperation creeping into Chad's features, he tacks on a soft, almost desperate, " _Please_."

"Relax. I'm not gonna crucify your boyfriend." The statement, which is mostly a joke, is the most promising reaction Chad could have realistically had to the entire situation.

Troy's insides all but liquefy with relief. He gives two of his most important people a last look, to assure himself that everything is fine, then makes his way to the bathroom.

As he's running the dryer over his hair, under its loud hum, he can detect the low buzz of a male's voice coming from the kitchen. He combs through his bangs, which are now long enough to graze his cheekbone, and hopes fervently that Chad isn't drudging up Chad and Ryan's uncomfortable high school history.

Chad was responsible for more than a few of the names spat at Ryan in East High's white tiled hallways. If he's bringing them up for old time's sake, or to intimidate Ryan, or whatever, Troy is going to have to-

Before he even finishes that thought, Troy switches the hairdryer off and heads back toward the kitchen. He feels unsettled to his core to find the room dead silent.

The oven seems to choose his arrival as its cue to go off. The high-pitched beeps are jarring amidst the pervasive silence, and Troy flinches as they blast his eardrums.

Ryan's chair scrapes the floor as he pushes out from under the table and jumps to his feet. "I'll just put the chicken in," he announces unnecessarily, his tone overly chipper.

Forced.

Hand covering his ear closest to the stove, Troy swings his gaze toward Chad, who offers him nothing but a meager shrug.

.

A masked figure haunts Troy's dreams, showing up in places it shouldn't be present; in the background of his dates with Gabriella, study dates with Ryan, rehearsals for the East High spring musical, even basketball practices. Troy can feel the eyeless black holes set in the mask fixed on him, scorching his skin and sending jolts of terror creeping up his spine. He can't explain why, but he wants to flee from the figure, even though he's absolutely certain it would pursue him.

Every time his back is turned to it, the figure inches closer. It's less than a foot away, practically breathing down his neck, the grin etched into the mask stretching impossibly wider, when Troy awakens to find Ryan's side of the bed empty.

Empty. Like Gabriella's desk in homeroom. Like her house with a "For Sale" sign in front of it.

Troy hauls his body into an upright position, untangles his legs from his quilt, tugs the hem of his shirt back down to cover his stomach, and stumbles out of bed. Heading down the hall, he can just make out Chad's head of thick curls laying against the armrest of the love seat, and a light streaming out from beneath the bathroom door. "Ryan?" He calls softly. He curls his fingers, preparing to rap at the door, when he realizes that it's slightly ajar. Throat tightening, fearing the worst, Troy pushes it all the way open.

Ryan is slumped against the sink, his eyes glazed. His fingernails dig into his arms and rake against his ivory skin.

"Ry?" The single syllable almost catches in Troy's throat. Ryan isn't "purging", but… Troy could hardly deem this an improvement.

Ryan rocks back and forth, lost in his own world as he repeats, "I'm not my sister. I'm not my sister. I'm not Sharpay." Pink scratches begin to take form, worn into his skin by the path his nails are carving, marking the length of his arms.

Horrified, Troy dashes over and hunkers down before Ryan. He takes hold of his hands the way…

The way Ryan took Troy's hands to stop him from hurting himself, that night outside of the karaoke bar.

Ryan lifts his head and his eyes widen upon meeting Troy's, as if he's resurfaced from submersion in a body of water, or a _nightmare_. His voice gut-wrenchingly close to breaking, he asks, "I'm not my sister, right?"

"Of course you're not," Troy swears. There's a throbbing, painful ache consuming his core, once again. He hates, absolutely _despises_ seeing Ryan suffer. He hopes and prays and wishes with all his might that he can fix whatever has upset him.

"I couldn't- I would never, _ever_ hurt you. I'm _not_ my sister. I'm not. I'm not, I'm not, I'm… !" Ryan's speech dissolves as a choked sob erupts from his throat. He struggles to wrench his arms from Troy's grip, aiming blows with closed fists toward his stomach, but Troy holds on tight, restraining him as gently as he can.

"I know you wouldn't. I know. I _know_ ," Troy soothes.

Ryan gnaws at his lower lip as he processes his boyfriend's words, his eyes swimming with tears. Gradually, the fight leaves his body. His wrists go slack in Troy's grasp. He searches Troy's face, eyes pouring over him, once more seeking something that Troy hopes fervently he can provide.

Hope, alone, doesn't seem to be enough, however.

A heart-piercing sound escapes Ryan. His eyes cloud, the tears pooling over and down his cheeks, and he crumples into Troy's chest, his body shuddering with just muffled sobs. "I'm an evil, hideous, disgusting monster."

"You're not. Babe, you are _none_ of those things." The pet name rolls right off his tongue before Troy has time to consider how Ryan might react to it. How _weird_ it could make things. But. there's no time to agonize over the lack of synchronicity between his brain and his mouth. With every sob smothered by his t-shirt, every tear soaking through the material, every shudder that seizes Ryan's entire body, every sign that Ryan- his anchor, his lifeline, his salvation- is completely falling apart, Troy can feel damage being dealt to his own heart. Claws sinking in and tearing the battered organ to shreds. He wraps his arms about Ryan's petite form and rubs circular patterns along his back. "Shhh," he lulls. "It's okay. It's gonna be all right. We'll work this out. _Together_."

"I… " Ryan sniffles. "I don't deserve you."

"That has to be one of the most absurd and totally untrue things I've ever heard." Troy wants to tell himself that he has no idea what brought all of this on, but that would be willful ignorance. He recalls the low buzz of a voice, _Chad's_ voice, beneath the noise of the hairdryer, the unnerving, strangulating silence that followed, and his stomach lurches. "Ryan, what did Chad say to you?

"Does it matter?"

"Yes, it does. It matters to me." Troy hears his volume increasing with his urgency, so he dials it back, determined to keep his voice soft and soothing. "What did he say, Ry?"

Ryan's heart is pounding as he deliberates his phrasing, perhaps, even, if he should offer a response at all.

Troy wishes he could take a sledgehammer to the walls surrounding Ryan's brain and heart; walls that were erected and fortified by years of being an Evans and living up to all that entails. "Ry?" He pleads, his voice hardly more than a whisper.

"He… " Ryan sniffles, again. The decongestion of his voice allows hard-edged bitterness to flood it. "Insinuated that I'm _using_ you. Because-"

"Because you're an Evans."

Ryan nods just discernibly and pushes his face into Troy's shirt.

Troy's stomach drops. He has half a mind to wake Chad up and make him apologize. Make him take back every single even unintentionally callous and cruel word, because Chad has _no idea_ what sort of impact they had. Are having. Will continue to have. But, an apology would mean about as much coming from a groggy and irritated that he's been disturbed Chad, as it would if it came from an insincere and supercilious Chad. Swallowing back his anger, Troy redirects his focus to Ryan and the serious dose of TLC Ryan is in critical need of. "Here. Let me see your arms."

Ryan pulls his body upright. Beneath the veil of his eyelashes, his eyes remain fixed on the tiled floor as Troy inspects his limbs. Shame and self-loathing radiate from him.

To Troy's dismay, droplets of bright red well, oozing out of the pink lines scoring Ryan's creamy flesh.

Forcing down the feelings of sadness, trepidation, and helplessness eating at his insides, Troy takes control of the situation. He gets to his feet and opens the medicine cabinet overlooking the sink. He removes the bottle of peroxide, a tube of antibacterial ointment, a bag of cotton balls, and a box of Band-Aids. Retrieving a cotton ball from the bag, he douses it in peroxide, then kneels in front of Ryan. "This might sting," he murmurs.

Ryan's only response is a quiet sniffle.

Troy can see and feel Ryan watching him intently as he rubs the peroxide swab along each scratch. Ryan doesn't even flinch as his cuts fizz, something that brings a melancholy half-smile to Troy's face. He's never handled physical pain well. Low tolerance, he supposes.

He doesn't want to think about _how_ and _why_ Ryan has acquired his high pain tolerance.

Once Ryan's wounds are disinfected and dressed, he offers Troy a low, "I'm really sorry", and folds his arms over his chest, _protectively_ , his features darkening and tone dripping with deep ignominy.

Troy shakes his head. "I'm a mess, too, remember?"

"We can heal, though. We can get better." Ryan phrases these things as a statement, his voice still unsteady and almost hoarse, but the question woven into those words is undeniable as his eyes mist. _Can't we?_

"Yeah." Troy presses a kiss to Ryan's forehead. He's almost astonished by how much he believes the words leaving his mouth. "We can, and we will."

.

Heath Ledger and Julia Stiles are having a moment on a swing set in _10 Things I Hate About You_ , when Ryan asks, "You called me 'babe'?" His voice is so soft, Troy almost wonders if he's imagined the query.

He can feel his chest clench as he answers, sheepish, "Y-Yeah."

Instead of pulling away, or chastising him, or driving an elbow into his ribs, reactions Troy finds himself expecting reflexively, Ryan shifts closer. "Could you, maybe keep calling me that?" His lips, bubblegum pink in the dim lighting provided by the laptop screen, are mere inches away. His eyes shine with something like hope.

"Whatever you want." Troy leans forward, diminishing the space between them until their noses are touching. "Babe." He nudges Ryan's nose with his own for punctuation.

A smile breaks out on Ryan's face, and then his lips are crashing against Troy's. Earnestly. Exuberantly. Want, want, and need flow from Ryan and into Troy, and as Troy finds his back pressed flat against the pillows, his hands wander; over the globes of Ryan's butt, along his backside. He caresses the bandaged scratches lining Ryan's arms, covers Ryan's protruding collarbone in kisses, and as Ryan's hips press into Troy's, grinding softly enough to be maddening, Troy's hands manage to clutch at the material of Ryan's t-shirt enough to lift it.

The exposed white flesh of Ryan's stomach meets Troy's eyes and Troy can't look away. Doesn't want to, even as Ryan sobers up from his fevered high and fumbles to readjust his shirt, his face paling. "Troy, you-"

"Shhh." Tentatively and ever so gently, Troy ghosts his fingers over Ryan's stomach, right around his navel. Ryan's skin is so _smooth_ and he shivers under Troy's touch, color blooming on his cheeks and staining the column of his neck. Troy looks up into his eyes, wordlessly seeking permission.

Ryan nods, just barely, and relinquishes his grip on his shirt. His shield. His breath hitches as Troy splays his hands across his abdomen and strokes the stretch of skin from his pelvis to his breastbone. Troy's name rises out of him in the form of a gasp. Whether out of fear, or ecstasy, or a mixture of both, Troy can't discern.

He sits up and plants a kiss right on the biggest, darkest bruise blotting Ryan's ribcage. "You have no idea how incredibly beautiful you are," he murmurs reverently, following the faint line of blond hair trailing into Ryan's pajama pants with his finger.

Ryan's eyes shine. He lifts a trembling hand and runs it through Troy's hair, stroking over his scalp. When he reaches the base of Troy's neck, he doesn't tangle his fingers in tendrils of Troy's hair, like Troy is bracing himself for- eyes fluttering closed, breath bated- but draws Troy into another kiss, this one soft, but just as emotionally charged. His front teeth graze Troy's lower lip as he breaks off. "I love you so much," he says, his breath tingling on Troy's lips.

Troy opens his eyes and Ryan is still there. Not bidding him a wordless farewell for the night, concealing the fact that this will be the last time Troy will lay eyes on him or touch him for weeks. Not preparing to vanish without a trace. "I love you, too, Ry." Troy's heart fills his throat, and his voice and eyes overflow with every emotion undulating through him. "Please don't hurt yourself ever again. Don't give the pieces of shit who gave you these bruises, these scars, the satisfaction."

"I'll… I'll try," Ryan promises, his voice a lachrymose whisper.

"Thank you." Troy feels like he can breathe properly, again, for the first time in hours. He kisses Ryan's collarbone, neck, and cheek, weight dropping right off of his chest.

A smile pulls at the corners of Ryan's mouth and it doesn't leave even as he asks, "You don't think I disturbed Chad with my… freakout, do you?"

"Nah." Troy scrunches up his nose and waves his hand dismissively. "He sleeps like a log. After years of sleepovers, I've learned you could make a list out of the things Chad can sleep through. We never experienced a tornado or earthquake, but I'm pretty sure they'd make the list. He managed to sleep through one of Ms. D's rants, after all."

Ryan laughs, genuinely, whole-heartedly, and Troy lets a smile work its way across his face.

"You're good," he assures him.

"Good. Wonderful." Pacified, Ryan smiles in return. His eyes seem to glow with both the faint bluish light from the laptop screen, and with love. The same love his voice positively teems with. "Thank you." He leans in and touches his nose to Troy's.

"Mm, you don't need to thank me." Exhaustion washes over Troy in a sudden wave. Ryan's closeness, his warmth, the pressure of his body weight in Troy's lap, the conflict that has been laid to rest, for the night… all of it makes Troy want to surrender and drift off. His eyes close and it's a struggle to keep them open.

"Are you tired?" Ryan asks. He drags a caressing finger over Troy's breastbone. "I didn't wake you up, did I?"

"No. I… " Troy's breathing slows, his thoughts getting fuzzy. "I had a nightmare."

"Oh. I'm sorry."

An apology. That's new. Usually, _Troy_ is the one apologizing.

"What are you sorry for? It's not your fault, Ry."

"I know, but…" Troy makes out Ryan biting at the inside of his lower lip before his eyes close. "In any case…" Ryan's warmth and body weight leave suddenly and Troy's heart jolts with the sickening sensation of abandonment. He blinks his eyes open, half-ready to scramble after Ryan, until he feels him settle back down beside him. "I'm here. _Right_ here," Ryan whispers. He snuggles in close and drapes his arm across Troy's torso. "It's 're safe."

Troy shifts to face him, wanting to believe those reassurances wholeheartedly. He breathes in Ryan's scent as it wreathes around him, and lets Ryan's presence ease him back into a contented, on-the-verge-of-sleep state. He _is_ safe, he tells himself, and, most importantly, _Ryan_ is safe, too. When the sun is up, they'll resolve the issue with Chad, and everything will be okay.

It _has_ to be.

Troy draws his quilt around his and Ryan's bodies, and gives Ryan a last long look, soaking in his familiar soft features until his vision blurs. When his eyes close, Troy breathes in a long, slow inhalation, wraps his arms around Ryan, and assures himself that the nightmares can't get either of them.


	3. III

_**After the dream**_

III.

Ryan is sleeping soundly, his soft features blessedly free of any signs of emotional wear and tear. Clear of any exterior evidence of nightmares assaulting his mind.

Knowing this Saturday is one of Ryan's few days off, and seeing him so tranquil, especially after the state of distress he found him in earlier, Troy doesn't have the heart to rouse him. Carefully, he eases out from under Ryan's peaceful form and wraps Ryan's sleep-heavy arm around a pillow to give him something to cuddle with in his absence.

As he takes in the soft glow the sunlight filtering through the blinds casts on Ryan's creamy skin, a smile works its way across Troy's face. Ryan is undeniably, incontrovertibly beautiful, and Troy still can't quite believe that someone so _amazing_ could _love_ him.

Or, _hate_ himself.

He reaches out to caress Ryan's downy blond hair, and a soft ache originates in his chest and ripples throughout his body.

He's in love. He's _so_ in love, and it's both invigorating, and absolutely _terrifying_.

What if he manages to mess this relationship up, too?

The mere prospect makes him want to curl into himself and grasp desperately at the invisible thread tethering him to Ryan, wind it secure around his torso so he can't slip out.

Troy brushes a feather-light kiss to Ryan's temple, then leaves the sanctuary of the bedroom. Padding quietly into the rest of the apartment, he finds it just as still, the silence broken only by the hum of appliances and Chad's quiet snores.

A spike of sudden anger heats Troy's insides as he looks at his best friend and his brain is slammed with the recollection of Ryan's fingernails scraping and tearing at his own skin. The terror and self-loathing clouding Ryan's eyes and racking his petite form. The bitterness flooding his voice as he admitted how Chad's thoughtless words had hurt him.

 _"He insinuated that I'm_ using _you."_

Because Ryan is an Evans.

It doesn't matter that all Ryan has ever wanted is to be recognized as his own person. No. His sister's high school legacy _had_ to follow him, even out _here_ -

Troy clenches his jaw and elects to channel his building farrago of despair and fury into something productive. He drops down to the ground and does fifty push-ups, then fifty sit-ups. When his body is still buzzing with a need to take action, he pulls on a pair of track pants, slips on his sneakers, tugs on a jacket, and heads out of the apartment complex.

His brisk walk turns into a steady jog, then a breakneck sprint as he racks his brain for ways to help his best friend and the person he loves put the past behind them and learn how to like each other.

If only Chad could just respect Ryan for who he is and all of the tremendous talent he has to offer…

Lungs on fire, vomit hitting the back of his throat, Troy stumbles to a stop and doubles over, drawing in ragged gasps. With each breath, a sense of calm washes over him.

He thinks he just _might_ have a solution.

.

The smell of blueberry pancakes is filling the apartment when a bright-eyed and messy-haired Ryan timidly ventures out of the bedroom.

"Good morning," he greets Troy softly, combing a hand through his hair.

"Morning." Troy grins and crosses over to give him a peck on the lips. "Don't worry," he murmurs, feeling immediately how tense Ryan is. "Chad's still asleep."

Ryan spares the living room a hasty glance and, assured Troy is correct, relaxes slightly.

"Sooo," Troy declares, gesturing toward the stovetop, eager to redirect Ryan's attention to something less… agitating. "How'm I doing?"

Ryan approaches the skillet and his muscles continue to slacken. He's entering one of his comfort zones, and it's striking how much he _trusts_ Troy. As in, the realization feels like being zapped with a lightning bolt.

He _trusts_ Troy enough to let him see him in a less than immaculate, slightly disheveled state. Enough to let him touch the body that Ryan can hardly stand to look at, himself. Enough to believe that Troy wouldn't let his best friend hurt him.

Standing there, feeling almost unsteady on his feet, his chest aching like the figurative lightning entered and exited through his core, Troy swears to himself that he will do everything in his power to never betray that trust. To become the person who _deserves_ to be deemed _trustworthy_ and _safe_ in Ryan's eyes.

"The thickness and consistency are pretty good," Ryan assesses, pulling Troy from his epiphany as he inspects the stack of already finished flapjacks set aside on a plate to cool. He then moves to the stove to prod at a still sizzling pancake with the edge of the spatula. "They're on their way to achieving that nice golden brown color." He pokes at the second pancake, flipping one end of it up. "And, most importantly…. " He turns to Troy and beams, his eyes glowing. "They smell _delicious_."

Troy grins back. Pride rushes through him.

A groan emits from Chad's general vicinity and Ryan flinches, his hand moving to rub self-consciously at the bandages lining his arms.

Troy steps into him. "The third drawer of my dresser is full of sweaters and sweatshirts," he says softly. "You can go ahead and put on whichever one you want, okay?"

"Okay." Ryan nods in understanding. His eyes shine with gratitude.

Chad lets out another drawn-out groan and rolls onto his right side.

The trepidation that Ryan is trying his best to mask flashes across his face and tenses his muscles. Troy reaches out a hand to steady him, the way Ryan has always steadied him.

"Thank you," Ryan whispers.

"You're fine," Troy reassures him.

Ryan makes his way to the bedroom and Troy returns to the pancakes, carefully removing the finished ones from the skillet the way Ryan showed him, setting them on a plate, and pouring in more batter.

Chad hauls himself into an upright position. He turns toward the kitchen, eyes closed and curls messy.

"Good morning to you," Troy greets him, adjusting the skillet's position on the burner.

"Are those pancakes I smell?" Chad asks.

"Yep."

Chad blinks one eye open. He spots Troy manning the stove and asks, "Since when do you know how to cook?"

"Ryan taught me." Troy prods at one pancake, and seeing it sufficiently golden brown enough on one side, flips it to let the other side sizzle away. He feels the confusion coming off of Chad, but his curly-haired best friend seems to have nothing else to add to the topic.

Chad stretches, his shoulders popping loud enough to make Troy wince. Then, he leans over the back of the couch. "So, which one of you is the housewife?"

"Funny, Mr. Comedian."

"Well, the two of you _are_ pretty domesticated."

Domesticated.

Domestic.

The word brings to mind matching silver wedding bands and concepts like moving in together, engagement, _marriage_ ; concepts that he and Ryan are far too young to even be considering.

Concepts that should probably be far more daunting than they actually are.

"I guess you could say that," Troy says slowly, part of him elsewhere and mulling over the idea of his and Ryan's belongings sharing a space, he and Ryan _officially_ sharing a bedroom, kitchen, bathroom, shower…

Ryan reemerges at that moment, wearing his hat from the previous night, the white long-sleeved shirt Troy remembers wearing the day he and Ryan danced together in musical rehearsals, last school year, and a pair of his own skinny jeans. The shirt hangs noticeably loose on Ryan's svelte frame, and he has the sleeves pulled down to his wrists to cover his wounds. But, despite his hunched posture, and the nervous shuffle of his feet, he appears comfortable, _at home_ , in the shirt.

An observation that makes Troy's heart flutter.

And, thankfully, Chad doesn't seem to suspect a thing. "Are we gonna eat, or what?" He asks, jumping up from the love seat. "I'm _starving_."

Troy lets out a laugh. "Thank _goodness_ I prepared to feed the bottomless pit." He nods toward the stack of pancakes already sitting out and ready for consumption. "Ry, can you get the syrup?"

"Yeah, sure." Ryan scurries to comply, opening the cupboard and arching forward on his toes to grab hold of the syrup bottle as Chad enters the room and takes the first plate.

Troy pulls the fridge door open, lifting another finished pancake out of the skillet to transfer it onto a plate with one hand, and removing the can of Reddi Whip- Chad's favorite pancake topping- from a shelf in the refrigerator door with his other hand.

Ryan is at his side, taking the can, closing the refrigerator, and moving the condiments to the table, without prompting.

When Troy has finished pouring more batter into the skillet and turns around, producing two more ready to eat pancakes, Chad is shaking his head, smirking softly.

"What?" Troy asks. Heat rushes to his cheeks.

"Nauseating. Truly," Chad says without any malice. He grabs the can of Reddi Whip and gives it a thorough shake. He's pointing the nozzle at his syrup-drenched pancakes when Troy lands a light mock-slap on his cheek.

"Hush up and eat your pancakes, Chad," Troy parrots the scolding, motherly tones of Mrs. Danforth, all too familiar to him after fifteen years' worth of every-other-weekend breakfasts at the Danforth home.

Chad grabs his fork and jabs it at Troy playfully, but remains graciously silent as he layers on the Reddi Whip and stabs into his first pancake. He lifts the entire disk of blueberry-filled batter to his mouth and takes a bite.

Troy hands the plate off to Ryan, and the two of them exchange looks, observing Chad's reaction with a mixture of amusement and just a hint of anxiety, and tentative curiosity, respectively.

A gleam lights Chad's brown eyes and he eagerly chews up his mouthful, gulps it down, and bites off another chunk of pancake. "I don't know what sort of magical gay technique Evans shared with you-"

Troy breathes a silent sigh of relief and trades another look with Ryan. He's pleased to see Ryan's discomfort beginning to ebb as a sort of dry, bewildered amusement replaces it.

"-but these pancakes are fucking _brilliant_ ," Chad finishes through a mouthful of whipped cream.

Smiling, the zeal of victory coursing through his system, Troy gestures to the plate before Ryan, silently encouraging him to eat.

Troy's own pancakes wind up being a bit dark around the edges, but enduring the burnt taste is totally worth it.

.

At Chad's behest- "It's a Saturday, and I'm in California. We're not going to sit on our asses in your apartment, are we? Come _on_ "- Troy drives Ryan, Chad, and himself to the Santa Monica Pier. Tense silence weighs heavily on the cockpit of Troy's Ford pickup the entire drive out there, and Troy feels Ryan pressing into him in an attempt to avoid contact with Chad as much as possible in the unusually claustrophobic space.

The pier is insanely crowded, which is to be expected, what with it being a tourist hotspot. They briefly tour the boardwalk to take in all of the attractions; stopping in at the aquarium, and perusing a few of the shops. Ryan takes out his phone and snaps several pictures of the venues, the fish in the aquarium, the famous ferris wheel against the skyline, and of Troy and Chad goofing off and playing games in the amusement park.

"Ry," Troy calls as Ryan is checking the newest photo in the phone's library, one of Troy pulling a dumb face as he grips Chad in a playful headlock. It was taken after the preceding picture of Chad subjecting Troy to a noogie. "Why don't you give this game a shot?" He points over his shoulder with his thumb toward the stand where a stack of bottles and a baseball sit on display.

Ryan follows Troy's thumb with his eyes and shuffles his feet nervously. "I don't know…"

"I'd really like to see that killer pitching arm I heard so much about in action." Troy employs his best pleading puppy-dog eyes.

Ryan meets them and acquiesces with a half-hearted sigh. "Fine. For you."

"You're the best." Troy bites at his lip, grinning, and jumps in to give Ryan a peck on the cheek. "You've got this."

"Yeah." A smile plays on Ryan's lips, only to falter as he catches Chad's eyes.

Troy's stomach drops. Hopefully, he can manage to get an apology from Chad. Having two of his most important people at odds with each other makes him feel unbalanced. More than ill at ease.

Once they've paid for the game- Troy forked over the money while Ryan shot him a 'you don't have to' look that promised to pay him back- Ryan takes the ball into his hand almost warily. He traces the red stitching in the material and breathes in deeply, preparing himself, Troy is sure, for a leap outside of his comfort zone.

In that moment of hesitation, Troy sees flashes of why Ryan ultimately abandoned baseball for theater.

Ryan feels _nothing_ for the sport. It's not his passion or his niche. It was something someone, probably Mr. Evans, foisted on him.

Just like Troy's reputation as East High's "Basketball Guy".

Mechanically, Ryan assumes a graceful, almost balletic version of a classic pitcher's stance. He takes a second to calculate his trajectory, eyes squinting, then brings his arm back. The movement is powerful and certain, just like every dance routine Troy has ever watched Ryan execute, but soulless where Ryan's dancing is bursting with life and energy. Ryan whips his arm forward at lightning speed, and the ball careens directly toward the center of the stack, sending all three bottles toppling to the floor.

It's impressive. Undeniably.

But…

Chad's eyes light up and he gives an approving nod. "What did I tell you, man?" He asks, clapping Troy's shoulder.

"Yeah. You were right," Troy says. He watches Ryan claim his prize; a plush wildcat that's nearly as tall as he is.

"Once a Wildcat," Ryan offers, holding the stuffed animal to his chest.

" _Always_ a Wildcat." Troy smiles and steps forward to squeeze Ryan's shoulder in what starts out as a celebratory manner, but shifts to consolatory.

So, Chad _does r_ espect Ryan. But, only on his own terms. Not because of who Ryan actually is.

As they resume walking, Troy's eyes fall to Ryan's backside. He observes the entrancing, rhythmic sway of Ryan's hips, remembers those hips and that dangerous posterior nearly colliding with him as Ryan was doing what he does best, and the spark of sudden inspiration fires off in his brain. As nonchalantly as possible, he calls out, "Hey! Why don't we check out the arcade?"

Ryan pauses and turns around at the exclamation. He looks mildly confused, but willing to go along with whatever Troy wants.

" _Now_ we're talking!" Chad whoops. He bounces on the soles of his feet, pumped and ready for action.

It only takes a few minutes to find exactly what Troy is looking for: the _Dance Dance Revolution_ machine.

Chad is primed and eager for a challenge, so Troy says, laying a hand on Ryan's shoulder, "Why not play against Ryan?"

His best friend gives him a look that is a mixture of amused and skeptical.

"I'll act as a neutral third party observer.".

Chad turns a challenging eye on Ryan. "You up for this, Evans?"

Ryan's posture shifts from hunched and diminished, to bold and competitive, that signature Evans fire igniting behind his eyes. "Why not?" He says with a shrug.

Chad's mouth twitches into a smirk. "Game on."

Troy extends his arms to take the plush toy from Ryan's grasp as Chad takes his place on one of the mats.

"Are you sure this is a good idea?" Ryan asks. Now that he doesn't need to put on a front, he rubs, again, at the stretch of scored skin on his arm.

"Trust me, okay?" Troy pleads, staring intently into Ryan's eyes.

"Okay." Slowly, Ryan breaks their eye-contact, and lets his face become an impassive blank slate. He swivels on his heel and steps up to stand on the mat adjacent to Chad. Before the first song, "Speed Over Beethoven", starts, he looks back to Troy, and Troy tucks the massive wildcat under his arm to flash him a thumbs up.

"You've got this, Ry," Troy whispers.

Soon, the competition is in full-swing. Chad is aggressive and his footwork is brisk, but Ryan's timing is perfect, and his footfalls match the beat almost effortlessly.

They tie.

As Ryan turns back to Troy to be met with a grin, Chad demands a rematch.

"Best two out of three."

The next song, "Butterfly Mega Mix", is harder, faster, and the required footwork is more complex. Chad is jumping around his mat like he would the basketball court. Ryan prances and twirls, and even executes a one-handed handstand that manages to draw a small crowd of dazzled onlookers.

Troy lets out a cheer, and Chad, fumbling from the distraction Ryan's showcase provides, chastises him.

"I thought you said you were a 'neutral third party'".

"Must've slipped my mind." Shrugging, Troy feigns a reproached expression. Any and all semblance of neutrality falls away, however, guilt be damned, as the tempo of the song continues to speed up. Troy knows he's rooting for one person and one person alone, his heart in his throat and nerves tingling with anticipation.

That one person doesn't miss a beat; his face intent and eyes focused on the screen as his feet work their magic.

Chad, meanwhile, panting, has to keep lowering his gaze to his feet to make sure they're aligned with the arrows properly.

Ryan continues to rack up "PERFECT"s as Chad just misses a few of the more complex maneuvers. It's no nail-biter, but Troy is still on the proverbial edge of his seat. He squeezes the plush toy as the song draws to a close and the scores are tallied. His heartbeat frenzied, he bites at his lower lip, pleading silently, _Come on, come on…!_

Ryan's side of the screen declares him the WINNER, and he lets his body still at last.

Troy cheers loudly, nearly dropping the stuffed wildcat as he cups his hands around his mouth and points at Ryan, beaming.

The crowd Ryan managed to draw follows his lead, several bystanders offering a round of applause coupled with some "alright"s and "wooooo"s.

Turning from the screen to soak in the appreciation, Ryan lets a grin work its way across his face.

As he finally manages to catch his breath, Chad rights himself. The movement startles Ryan, who tenses, like he's expecting some sort of retribution for his victory.

Troy clutches at the wildcat, watching the pair with his nerves on edge. He knows Chad would _never_ , but... He'll hurtle himself between them if he needs to.

When Chad is only about a foot away from Ryan, he stops. He meets a rigid Ryan's eyes and, before the silence can stretch on and increase the weight of the already crushing tension between them, he says, "Good game, Evans." Just a hint of bitterness tinges the words, but Troy can tell that he means it. Chad is brash, hardheaded, and close-minded, but he's not a sore loser.

He offers Ryan his hand, and Ryan, his face drained of the color exertion and elation flooded it with, stares the appendage down.

His eyes flit to Troy, who tries his best to keep his face from swaying Ryan either way. As much as he wants Ryan and Chad to get along, this isn't his call to make.

Ryan looks back to Chad and bites at the interior of his lower lip. After a moment's hesitation, his eyes ignite with fierce determination and he takes Chad's hand, shaking it firmly.

Troy releases a breath he wasn't aware he was holding.

"That's _Ryan_ ," Ryan amends.

Troy almost cheers again, ecstatic to hear Ryan's confidence replenished enough for the courage and moxie Troy has always admired and respected to resurface.

"And, thanks." There's a beat, and a smirk tugs at Ryan's candied lips. "I _told you_ dancing takes some game," he says mischievously.

Chad retracts his hand, but he can't hide the impressed smile pulling at the corners of his mouth. He and Ryan exit the game's arena right as Troy ambles over.

"So…" Troy asks, wrapping his free arm around Ryan's backside. "Is everybody cool with each other, now?"

Chad looks Troy and Ryan over, and the confusion quirking his eyebrows gradually gives way to a sudden revelation. "Okay, so I run my mouth, sometimes."

Ryan arches an eyebrow at him, and Troy is so thankful to have someone who has weathered enough of Sharpay's bullshit that he doesn't take crap from anyone.

 _So thankful_ that Ryan isn't scared of Chad, anymore.

"Okay, okay." Chad raises a hand in surrender. "I guess I can be sort of a-"

"Jerk," Troy supplies helpfully at the same time Ryan deadpans, "An ass".

Chad pulls a sulking face. "Look, I get it. Okay? I was wrong." His expression shifts, becomes serious. "What you two have is the real deal, and I shouldn't have said what I said to Evans- _Ryan_ ," he corrects himself without prodding, "last night. Lumping you in with your sister wasn't cool."

Ryan looks to Troy, then ducks his head, mulling the apology over.

Troy meets Chad's eyes, and they both watch Ryan expectantly.

After a few seconds' consideration, Ryan raises his head and a half-smile plays on his lips. He gives Chad a smack on the bicep. "You're forgiven."

Chad is taken aback by the strength driving the smack, but once his surprise recedes, astonishment takes its place. "Hoops, you really know how to pick 'em."

Troy beams, laughing heartily. He'll take that as a compliment. He hugs Ryan to him and just keeps the plush cat aloft with his leg.

Chad shakes his head, an indulgent smile playing on his lips. "Well, I don't know about you two, but I'm starved."

"To lunch?" Troy asks.

"To lunch!" Ryan choruses, wrapping his arm around Troy's waist.

.

Lunch is a grilled chicken sandwich and fries for Troy, a grilled chicken salad with mango and apple slices, cranberries, and pecans for Ryan (that he doesn't finish, even with Troy helping), a big, greasy hamburger with everything on it and fries for Chad, because he doesn't believe in eating healthy, and milkshakes for all three of them.

Ryan crinkles his nose as he watches Chad douse his fries in ketchup before dipping one of them into his chocolate shake.

"Hey." Chad says, stuffing the fry into his mouth. "Don't knock it till you try it."

"I think I'd rather not." The corner of his mouth twitching with what Troy is sure is faint nausea, Ryan lowers his gaze from the offending food item and pokes at his salad.

"Suit yourself." Chad repeats the process with another ketchup-drenched french fry.

Troy shakes his head affectionately and dips a ketchup-less fry into his own chocolate milkshake. "It's really not that bad. Chad's just a weirdo who likes to put ketchup on things that should never have any association with ketchup."

As if out of spite, Chad dips three more fries covered in the shiny red sauce into his shake.

Ryan cringes.

"Here." Troy offers his chocolate milkshake-coated french fry to Ryan, cupping his hand under it to keep the ice cream from dripping.

Ryan eyes the fry warily, but once he meets Troy's eyes and the subtle, encouraging nod Troy gives him, he leans in and takes a small bite. His eyes promptly light up. "You're turning me on to all sorts of unhealthy dining habits, you know," he teases once he's swallowed the fry down.

Troy grins and pops the other half of the french fry into his mouth. "I'll make it my mission to expose you to _all_ of the unhealthy food stuffs we non-rich people indulge in." At Ryan's look of mild horror, he adds, "Only the ones that, you know, taste great and wouldn't kill you, though, of course."

Ryan gives his head a fond shake, smiling widely. "Of course."

"Again, nauseating," Chad says.

Troy chucks a fry at him, and Chad's expression is very grateful that the fry was clean.

.

The drive back is comfortable, the three of them singing and rapping along to Third Eye Blind's "Semi-Charmed Life".

Ryan astonishes Chad, once more, by going all in on the egregiously heterosexual verses.

Troy just laughs to himself and revels in the moment; Ryan's shoulder and hip brushing against his as Ryan grooves to the music, totally in his element; a giant plush wildcat, small teddy bear that Chad won for Taylor, and a bag of leftovers on their laps; the sounds of singing and laughter enveloping him.

.

The pickup manages to endure the drive from the Pier with only a stop at a gas station to refill its tank along the way. Troy waits with a sense of dread for the engine's semi-steady purr to falter back into its usual pitiful spluttering, but it holds out all the way to the airport.

"Why don't you just have your boyfriend break the bank and buy you a new fuel pump?" Chad asks as Troy helps him collect his belongings from the bed of the truck.

Troy glances toward the rear window, assuring himself that Ryan hasn't overheard. "It's not Ryan's responsibility," he replies, handing the overnight duffle bag off.

Chad simply shakes his head.

Grabbing a wall of the truck bed, Troy leaps over it and lands on the tarmac of the parking lot a bit harder than he would have liked, his knee aching dully in protest. He walks it off, though, moving to the front of the vehicle. He leans in through the rolled down driver's side window and tells Ryan, "I'll be right back."

"I'll be here," Ryan replies. The cheery tone of his voice is a far cry from the broken, quavering emissions of distress that welled out of his throat in the wee hours of the morning.

Like the pearls of fresh blood gleaming garish red against his ivory skin.

Troy revels in the contrast. He'll do everything in his power to keep Ryan from falling back into the dark place he found him in, to encourage him to quit "purging", to help him love himself.

He's likewise elated to see Chad fist-bumping Ryan and stating, "Catch you on the flip side."

Ryan nods and gives an adorably awkward, "Um, right on, dude," in response.

Troy breaks into a grin, laughing to himself and, with a prod, turns to follow Chad into the building.

"This time next year, you and me are gonna be team captains, right?" Chad asks. His voice brims with the ambition and passion for basketball that Troy hasn't been able to muster all semester.

An uneasy feeling slams down on Troy's stomach; the weight of more expectations piled on his shoulders. He can already feel his spine slumping under it. But, he's too much of a coward to admit to Chad's face that he might not want to be team captain, again. That just showing up to class and making the grades he needs to graduate in four years, flying under the radar, _invisibility_ , sound more and more appealing all the time. Instead, he lets the appeasing smile that made him feel like a phony piece of shit for four years at East High unfurl across his face. "Let's not put the cart before the horse, okay?"

" _Please_ , like you don't have everyone at that school fawning all over you."

The idea almost makes Troy laugh. And, not the fake 'East High Primo Boy Troy Bolton' laugh. A dry, humorless, bitter laugh. The sort of laugh Ryan forces out when difficult subjects come up. "Yeah. It's not like I'm just one guy in a school _full_ of aspiring athletes and thespians."

Chad gives him the same questioning, bewildered stare he shot him the day they were all roped into doing the senior year spring musical; Ms. Darbus had asked them what their goals for their futures were, and Troy drew a complete blank.

But, he doesn't say anything.

They continue on in silence until Chad reaches the gate to his flight. "Hoops."

Troy has to fight not to flinch at the name, and he wonders when that started to happen. "Yeah?"

"Over break, if your dad flips his lid about your… lifestyle," Chad adjusts the way he's holding his overnight bag, and Troy feels his stomach lurch at the gravity of this conversation.

His dad's reaction. He hadn't even let himself think about that for weeks.

Troy rubs at his neck, trying to alleviate some of the tension knotting it. His heart drops into the pit of his stomach, and his pulse quickens as images of his dad's features contorting into a disgusted sneer before he slams the door in Troy and Ryan's faces bombard his thoughts.

"The doors at my parents' place are open for you and Ryan."

Ryan. Not " _Evans_ ".

Troy sweeps Chad into a tight hug. "Thank you, man."

Chad claps him on the back and Troy can feel him trying not to smile. "Yeah." Breaking off, Chad puts on a show of sniffing. "I need to hit the road before I come down with a case of emotions."

Troy shoves his at his shoulder affectionately. "Really," he says softly, "thank you."

"It's no big deal," Chad says with a shrug. The look in his eyes says otherwise. He turns around and walks through the terminal.

Troy watches until the distinct 'fro is swallowed up in the sea of fellow travelers.

.

Splutters spew from the engine of Troy's truck like the dying gasps of an ill-fated creature. Troy and Ryan have to push the pickup into the parking lot of their apartment complex.

"I'm really sorry," Troy offers, huffing as he strains from the back of the truck to budge the vehicle into its resting place.

"You… have nothing to be sorry about-!" Ryan breaks off with a gasp of his own as a final shove from Troy propels the truck forward.

Alarmed, Troy races around to check that he hasn't crashed into the mound of concrete at the head of the parking space. Thankfully, his front fender is still intact, and unscathed.

He lets out an exhalation that feels like it's removed ten pounds from his back and lifts the front of his shirt to his face to wipe off the sweat pouring down it.

"How often does that happen?" Ryan gestures toward the run-down truck. He rolls his shoulders and rubs at his bicep, his expression vaguely pained.

 _Too often_ , Troy thinks. "Don't worry about it," he says.

Ryan's brows furrow, his lips pursing. He doesn't want to drop it, but this isn't his responsibility.

"Come on." Troy pulls his shirt back down and wraps an arm around Ryan, steering him toward the building. "It's been a long day."

.

Ryan steps into the shower at Troy's encouragement. To the sound of the water gushing out of the shower head, Troy gets out his Psychology textbook, intent on doing some reading for class.

It isn't until Ryan murmurs a soft, "Hey", that Troy starts awake and realizes he's dozed off.

"Hey," he replies, stretching. His cheek hurts from where it was pressed against the pages of the book, and his left arm is stiff.

Ryan is wearing a pair of boxers and a dress shirt that Troy thinks might be his, judging by how loose it is across Ryan's narrow chest. Ryan's hair, still slightly damp, sticks up in a few places. The strong smell of his shampoo is like an aphrodisiac. It reels Troy in until he's on his feet and his arms are encircling Ryan's lithe form.

"I'm really proud of you," he says, his voice low.

"Hmm?" Ryan arcs an eyebrow. He relaxes into the embrace and leans in until the tip of his nose is just touching Troy's.

"The way you handled Chad, today. And, that handstand? _Very_ impressive."

Ryan's lips twitch into a grin. "Why thank you. But, I can't take full credit."

Troy gives him an inquiring look.

"I think we both know who the _real_ mastermind behind Chad and I agreeing to let bygones be bygones was."

Troy averts his eyes, bashful. He was hoping his role would go unnoticed. "Nah. That was all you. I was just-"

"'A neutral third party observer'?" Brow still arced, Ryan smiles softly, the corners of his mouth twitching with amusement. He shakes his head. "You're transparent, you know."

Before Troy can ask him to clarify, Ryan tilts his head and his lips connect with Troy's. His arms wind around Troy's neck, and his body presses against Troy's, melding into his solid chest.

His eyes closing, Troy melts into the kiss. As Ryan's fingertips sneak under the hem of his shirt, caressing the dimples at the base of his spine, Troy's hands slowly slide under the loose shirt clothing Ryan. They roam over Ryan's smooth skin, determined to both chart the topography of his svelte form, and seek out his sweet spots. A soft whine issues from Ryan's throat, and Troy responds with a grunt of his own. He moves to kiss at Ryan's neck, and nips lightly at his collarbone. All the while, Troy can hear the rapid breaths fluttering in Ryan's throat over his own blood pulsing in his temples.

Ryan presses into him, arching his neck to give Troy better access to the column of white skin.

Moan swelling in his own throat at the sight, the encouragement, Troy begins undoing the buttons on Ryan's shirt. He's down to the third button, has Ryan's chest exposed to his eyes and the swiftly increasing temperature of the air around them, and is ready to cover every inch of milky white skin in hungry, eager kisses… when Ryan _freezes_.

Like _rigor mortis_ has set in.

Troy can hear Ryan's heart hammering, and he knows it's less out of excitement, and more out of _anxiety_. "Ry?" He asks. He lifts his eyes to search Ryan's. Concern that he's done something _wrong_ , something to make Ryan not want this, _him_ , anymore, washes over him in a tidal wave.

"Are…" Ryan swallows. "Are you sure you want to see my, um… ?"

"Yes," Troy answers immediately. " _Hell_ yes." Desire races up and down his body, concentrating in his heart and pouring into his stomach. "God, Ryan. I want you _so_ bad. There is absolutely _nothing_ on your body that will make this-" His hips thrust forward almost subconsciously, pressing his cock, which aches with an intense, consuming need to be tended to, against Ryan's stomach.

Ryan whimpers, flushing deep pink all the way to the top of his chest.

"Or, most importantly, _this_ -" Troy takes Ryan's hand and places it over his heart that thuds and pulses and floods over simply from Ryan's proximity. "-stop wanting you. I love you. I love you so much and I want to love all of you. Every teeny tiny centimeter. But…" Troy stares intently into Ryan's eyes and falters. His stomach gives a sickening jolt.

Fear and dread are what meet him. They stretch Ryan's blue eyes wide, and cause tremors to wrack his body.

He…

 _Shit_.

Horrified and disgusted with himself, Troy reaches up to seize a clump of his own hair, yanking at the roots. He should have known better. He _can't force this_. He _can't_ , even though he wants to, _make_ Ryan love and accept his own body.

Like any healing, it will take _time_.

"T-Troy?" Ryan stammers weakly.

Feeling vaguely nauseous, Troy swallows. Slowly, resolutely, he amends, "But, only when _you're_ ready."

Ryan searches Troy's eyes. His trembling has begun to subside, somewhat, but his gaze is still clouded; with emotions that Troy can't decipher, and the acute _fear_ , Troy knows, of letting someone else set eyes on him without any protective barriers. That what's under that protective barrier will be deemed repulsive. Utterly undesirable. Be _rejected_.

Ryan worries his kissed-red lower lip between his teeth. The glossy color coating his lips has been smudged, and Troy is sure some of it transferred to his own face while he was _defiling_ his boyfriend.

Troy takes a step back to give Ryan space, room to breathe- to recover- and- His stomach _roils_. He wants to run, but his body feels chained to the floor. Nausea swamps his insides and he hates himself. Despises himself. Wants to claw and tear into his own skin like Ryan ripped into his own arms.

"Troy, hey. Look at me."

Troy can't breathe, again. His throat is so tight. "I'm _so_ sorry, Ryan," he croaks. "I'm a monster. An idiot. A horrible, stupid, fucked up-"

"Troy, you did _not_ force yourself on me. Okay? Breathe."

It's the note of panic heightening Ryan's dulcet tones that causes Troy to draw a shaky breath.

"That's good," Ryan assures him, lovely voice trembling with relief. He touches Troy's face with ever-so-gentle fingers. "Again. Through your nose, like I showed you." He breathes in and Troy does, as well. Together, they exhale.

Troy's breath rate starts to even out. "I'm sorry," he manages, his voice ragged.

"Shhh. Just breathe, alright?"

Troy nods. For twenty seconds, or so, the only sounds are Troy and Ryan's breathing, and Troy's frantic heartbeat winding down.

"There you go." Ryan sighs, his muscles going slack. His hand trails away from Troy's face, and Troy misses it already. "Troy, could you-? "

"Yeah?" Troy finally lets go of the fringe of his hair and half-heartedly combs it back into place. He reminds himself that, if Ryan still needs him, or even _wants_ him, he has to be gentle. Always _gentle_. Never insistent. No pressuring.

"C-Could you just…" Ryan bites at his lower lip and grabs uselessly at the front of his shirt. For a moment, he lowers his walls. He looks tired and lost, and as he shrinks into himself, how small and fragile he really is is emphasized.

Troy's heart twists painfully. _He_ did this.

"Hold me for a while?"

Troy almost thinks he's misheard, until he looks into Ryan's eyes and sees the _need_ shining on the liquid blue surface. "Yes. Of course. Of _course_." He moves back in and carefully wraps his arms around Ryan, drawing him into a snug, secure embrace.

"I'm so sorry," Ryan murmurs against Troy's throat.

"You have nothing to be sorry about." Troy soothes, rocking him gently. " _I'm_ sorry for pressuring you."

"You didn't pressure me. Things got heated and you reacted like a normal human being-"

"I was thinking with my dick."

Ryan raises no arguments to that assertion.

"I know I can't make you believe me when I tell you how beautiful you are. But, I'll keep saying it, because you deserve to hear it. I'll say it as many times as it takes to dislodge every hateful word that made you believe otherwise, and then keep saying it, because it's true." Troy rests his chin atop Ryan's soft halo of blond hair. "You're _so_ amazing, Ryan. Inside and out."

Ryan presses a kiss to Troy's collarbone, and Troy can feel the small smile tugging at Ryan's lips. "I think I really do prefer when you think with your heart."

Troy laughs, trying to fight back the barrage of self-loathing that engulfs his center and chases out any remaining twinges of arousal. He's such a-

"Please don't beat yourself up," Ryan cuts in, his voice soft but unyielding. Because he _knows_. Just like he always seems to know when Troy needs to eat. "You're only human, Troy. If the roles were reversed, I would have been practically humping your leg." He laughs, but his words bear an unmistakable tinge of self-deprecation.

Troy laughs again, as well, but weaker. It sounds almost strangled to his own ears.

Ryan steps back from the embrace and lifts his eyes to meet Troy's. His gaze is clear, focused, affectionate. Not a hint of terror to be found. "You just… want to love me, and want me to love myself." He lowers his voice and says firmly, his hands grasping Troy's biceps, "We weren't doing anything I didn't want, too."

"Are you sure? Completely, totally positive?" Troy searches Ryan's eyes deeply for even the slightest _hint_ of uncertainty.

"Completely, totally, _two-hundred percent_ positive," Ryan assures him.

Troy tries his best to believe him.

"Come on." Ryan smiles, gives Troy a light pat on the butt, and nods toward the bed. "I have a movie I want to watch with you."

Curious, Troy follows along and takes a seat beside Ryan on the bed.

The movie turns out to be _The Wizard of Oz_ , a film that Ryan can recite line for line, and he does so, softly mimicking each character's distinct intonations with a hint of child-like wonder illuminating his soft features.

Troy doesn't need to be told that the film was a steeple of Ryan's childhood, or that the song "Somewhere Over The Rainbow", got Ryan through more than one onerous day. It's obvious in the far-off, wistful look Ryan adopts, identical to Judy Garland's, on-screen. It's transparent in the subtle quaver underlining Ryan's otherwise velvet-smooth voice.

Oddly, watching this film with Ryan feels more intimate than seeing Ryan with his top off. It's a different form of nakedness, and Ryan is willingly laying himself bare.

Troy isn't sure how to thank Ryan for sharing this with him. He gives him a long look, hoping it will express everything he can't even begin to say- how much this means to him, how honored and _grateful_ he is that Ryan still _trusts him so much_ \- and squeezes Ryan's hand.

On the last _Why, oh why can't I?_ Ryan meets Troy's look openly. No walls. No defenses. He's vulnerable, but completely unafraid. He squeezes back and slides his fingers neatly into the spaces between Troy's.

Before Dorothy and Toto land in Oz and the film makes its famous switch from sepia to Technicolor ™ , Troy informs Ryan that he's going to get some popcorn. He places a soft kiss on the crown of Ryan's head and swings his legs off of the bed to scamper out of the room.

When he returns, Ryan has paused the film on Dorothy preparing to exit her home and enter Munchkinland and is hunkered over, examining a particular corner of the room. "And, who is this?" He gestures with his hand to a familiar green and red plastic body.

Troy rubs at the back of his neck, cheeks aflame. He _knew_ he shouldn't have left the toy robot sitting out in the open. He's certain that discovering your college-aged boyfriend's childhood plaything sitting out in his apartment has to rank among the top ten biggest turn-offs.

But, Ryan's nakedness deserves some reciprocation.

Instead of letting out an awkward laugh and stowing the toy away, Troy replies, "That's um, one of my prized childhood possessions. Robo-Rob." In spite of himself, he finds a fond smile beginning to work its way across his face. "It's crazy, but I couldn't bring myself to part with i-" he begins to say, then, reminding himself that Ryan is _not_ Gabriella, and won't judge him like she did, corrects himself "- _him_ when I moved out here. I guess I needed something to remind me of my treehouse, back home."

Surprisingly, or not surprisingly at all, Ryan isn't laughing like Troy is _such_ an embarrassment, _or_ picking the robot up to horse around with its fragile parts. Instead, he nods in understanding and extracts something from the pocket of a pair of his jeans sitting neatly folded on the floor. "My mom gave me this on Sharpay's and my first day of high school." He holds up a keychain with a tiny yellow duck attached to it. "I'm her 'Duckie', so I guess she thought it would be a sort of good luck charm, or something."

"That's sweet," Troy says honestly. It doesn't negate Mrs. and Mr. Evans favoring Sharpay and seemingly neglecting Ryan's existence, but… it's still sweet. Troy manages to keep his fond smile in place, even as his thoughts take a downturn.

Ryan smiles in return. "I guess I wanted something to remind me of everyone back home, too. So… You can consider me a proud member of the Loser Club." His smile morphs into a grin as he adds, "I'll design the t-shirts."

The laugh that leaves Troy, this time, isn't strangled at all. It's genuine. "Just as long as I'm club president." He tousles Ryan's hair, and the smile Ryan flashes him in response reassures him that everything is still okay between them.

.

"You're sexually frustrated," Ryan murmurs as the Wicked Witch is sending her flying monkeys after Dorothy and her ragtag bunch of friends.

Troy's on the verge of dozing off, his eyelids heavy, thoughts thick and foggy, and body weighed down with emotional exhaustion and flooded over with contentment from the wonderful sensation of Ryan's fingers stroking through his hair. The sound of Ryan's voice is a call back to wakefulness. Blinking to rouse himself, Troy just manages to produce a garbled, "Mmm?"

"Sorry." Ryan's body jerks, like he wasn't even aware he uttered the words aloud. "It was- just an observation." He pauses briefly, then resumes his ministrations, caressing Troy's scalp all the way down to the nape of his neck, which he proceeds to massage ever so gently.

The shivers of pleasure the contact engenders send Troy curling into Ryan and burying his nose in Ryan's lean shoulder. He feels the fog clouding his brain begin to lift, and, in its absence, self-consciousness crashes down on him. "Is that a bad thing?"

"No, _no_ ," Ryan hurriedly insists. "At least, not in the sense that you're doing something wrong by being this way." He shifts closer and draws an arm around Troy almost protectively. "Sometimes, I…"

Troy is fully alert, now. He clutches at Ryan and encourages, "Yeah? What is it?" He half expects Ryan to shut him out, maybe as punishment for pushing too hard, earlier.

"It's selfish and shitty, but…" Ryan licks at his upper lip and his hand comes to a rest on the first vertebrae of Troy's spine. "I sometimes wish Gabriella never had the chance to hurt you like she did."

Troy stills, his blood frosting over. It takes a moment for him to remind himself how to breathe.

He wonders, dull ache sounding off in his chest, if it will always be like this when he hears Gabriella's name.

"That is, um…" Ryan shifts, and Troy can feel the shame eating at him.

"That's not selfish, Ry," Troy murmurs.

Ryan is quiet, deliberating. "The point I was trying to make is…" He puts himself at eye-level with Troy, and brings his hand back up to stroke the hair on the back of Troy's head. Tenderly, soothingly. His voice low, he says, "Even though I'm not quite ready for _that_ big step-" Troy doesn't need to ask for clarification. The way Ryan trembled and whimpered at the mere prospect of Troy- _anyone_ \- seeing his upper body unclothed is still fresh in his mind. "-I want to be intimate with you."

"Y-Yeah?" Troy ventures, unable to keep the flare of sudden, painful hope out of his voice. Gabriella never gave him that impression. The memory of her laughing gleefully as the sprinkler system on the Lava Springs green came on, interrupting Troy's third attempt to kiss her, haunted him for quite some time. He never even thought about asking for more than the few kisses he and Gabriella shared over the year and a half they were together.

"Yeah." Ryan smiles softly. He kisses Troy's forehead, and when he breaks off, his eyes glow like a clear blue summer sky and pink tints his fair cheeks.

Timorously, Troy smiles back. "I… I guess you really like me, huh?"

"Only more than all the stars in all the skies in the universe," Ryan answers seriously.

"Well, now I know I have a heart," Troy says, sheepish.

Ryan's face lights up and an impressed smile tugs at the corners of his mouth.

Leaning in, Troy touches his nose to Ryan's and kisses him softly, chastely. He breaks off leisurely, prepared to leave it at that, but there's an expulsion of giddy, affectionate laughter from Ryan, and then he's being pulled into another, deeper kiss. Their bodies press flush together and Troy's brain and heart are caught in an infinite loop of, _I love you. I love you, Ryan. I love you so ridiculously, absurdly, exorbitantly, extraordinarily much._

.

"Mr. Bolton!" Mr. Elham calls.

Troy whirls away from the glass menagerie, and Florence and Rosalind freeze in their places onstage.

"Let's work at that limp. Really make it convincing."

"I could kick you in the shin, if it would help," Rosalind offers in a hushed voice, running her fingers along the brooch under the collar of her dress.

"Pardon me?" Troy asks.

Flushing, Rosalind gapes for a second, then, at Mr. Elham's call to take five, snaps her mouth shut and hurries off the stage.

Bewildered, Troy stares after her until she descends the stairs, then looks to Florence, hoping for some assistance. "What just happened, there?"

Florence bites at her lip, just managing to suppress a laugh. "Someone's got it bad for yoooou," she singsongs.

"No way."

Florence nods toward their cast mate.

Incredulous, Troy looks in Rosalind's direction to find her staring back at him while another member of Berkeley's theater department chatters away in her ear.

When she meets his eyes, the flush on Rosalind's cheeks spreads to color her neck- just like Ryan- and she tucks a strand of blonde hair behind her ear, averting her gaze sharply.

Troy's stomach flips over itself. "Fuck," he murmurs. "She-She knows I'm dating Ryan, right?"

"The entire theater department knows," Florence assures him. "But…" She waggles her eyebrows and gives Troy a mischievous nudge. "You are quite the stud, Troy Bolton. You managed to get the ingenue playing our mother hot and bothered."

"I didn't even-" Troy starts weakly. His feelings are at war with each other. Half of him feels really bad for Rosalind. The other half is recoiling at the mere prospect of _another_ blonde performer being interested in him. Stomach flipping end over end, he relives hands scalding his skin, vanilla-scented blonde waves smacking him in the face, his shirt being tugged up to expose his stomach, a voice declaring that its owner and Troy were " _meant to sing together_ "…

"Hey." Florence touches his bicep and Troy extracts himself from the memories before the urge to heave hits him. "You all right?"

"Yeah. I'm fine," Troy assures her. His voice sounds breathy, winded, to his own ears, and he hopes Florence won't pick up on it.

She eyes him skeptically, concern pulling at her brow-line. "You totally zoned out on me. Were you flashing back to a war, or something?"

"It was _nothing_. Really."

"Alright." Still not quite convinced, Florence hesitantly breaks her intense eye-contact and reaches into her pocket for another stick of gum. "The girls you went to high school with must have been just shy of _completamente loca_ ," she marvels with a slight shake of her head.

"Yeah." Troy tugs at the hem of his shirt, just to make sure his stomach is covered. "Just shy."

.

After taking a bus to school, that morning, Troy's not sure what he was expecting in terms of a ride back to the apartment. An electric blue moped and a familiar svelte but curvy figure sitting astride it has just rocketed to the top of the list of "best possible rides he could have gotten".

A few passersby stare as Ryan removes his sunglasses like the star in the making he is.

Troy can't contain the giddy excitement fizzing through him, and rushes toward him with a grin. "I thought you had rehearsals," he says, half-teasing, half honestly incredulous. He takes in the sleek build of the vehicle, and feels a minute twinge of envy. He wishes his truck was in such good repair.

But, Ryan deserves the best that money can buy, and Troy knows he'd be much more upset if the vehicle _Ryan_ was driving was a rickety, unreliable, secondhand safety hazard.

"The director had to check out early. His daughter had a 'feminine emergency' at school."

"Daddy to the rescue, huh?"

Ryan smirks. "Yeah. Daddy to the rescue." He scoots forward on the scooter to give Troy room, and Troy swings one leg over the side. It's not quite the Tom Cruise levels of badass he and Chad hoped to achieve in childhood, but he'd be lying if he said that the hum of the moped's engine and the vibrations beneath him as he straddles it aren't exhilarating.

"Ready to go?" Ryan asks.

"Yep," Troy confirms, his nerves tingling. "Thank you," he adds quietly.

"Don't mention it," Ryan replies just as quietly. He slips his sunglasses back on his face and places his hands on the controls. "Hang on tight, okay?" He calls.

Heart pulsing, Troy wraps his arms around Ryan's waist. And, then they're off, the moped gliding and racing down the streets as Ryan navigates it with the same silk-smooth finesse he brings to everything he touches.

Troy feels the wind in his hair in a way that's similar to, but distinct from driving with his windows down. The turf blurs beneath them, the backdrop indistinct as they whiz by.

It's such a _rush_.

Troy is sure Chad and the guys would tease him mercilessly for being "the girl", in this situation, but… For a moment, he loosens his grip on Ryan and leans back on the seat. Assured that it's safe to do so, he throws his arms out, and lets himself imagine that, with the wind billowing around him, buffeting his clothes and hair, and the fluid movement of the moped beneath him, he's defying gravity.

 _Really, screw what Chad and the guys think_ , he tells himself, moving back into Ryan and securing his hold on his slender torso. He buries his face in the back of Ryan's neck with an enlivened smile spreading across his face. They're _the ones missing out._

.

Troy leaves Ryan curled up on the love seat in his apartment with the copy of _Roses and Bones_ open in his hands and his earbuds in his ears, lost in his own world, to tinker with his truck.

He tugs out the radiator cap and listens, grimacing, as steam expels from the radiator. He has no idea how he's going to make it to a scrapyard to scrounge for-

"Hey, Mr. Fix-It."

"Oh, geez!" Troy jolts, his heart almost going into palpitations. He whirls around to face Ryan, who reaches out to steady him and offers him an apologetic look.

"Whoa. Sorry for startling you."

"It's fine," Troy assures him with a half-smile. The tempo of his pulse is already slowing. "What's up?"

"Well… "Ryan peers at something over Troy's shoulder with an intent expression, squinting his eyes in concentration.

Troy follows his line of sight to the open hood of his truck.

"Call me old-fashioned, but, I thought this sort of thing was something a couple was supposed to tackle together."

"I'm sorr-" Troy starts, already moving to rub at the back of his neck.

Ryan shakes his head. "You don't need to apologize. You give me rides in your truck, right?"

Troy mulls it over, and swallows, his heart giving a dull pang. "Right."

"So, it's only fair that I help you make the necessary repairs, right?" Ryan holds Troy's gaze until Troy nods.

"Right."

Ryan's lips quirk into a soft smile. "Which parts do you need?"

"Well… the fuel pump is beyond deceased, and I'm thinking a new radiator cap would be…" Troy trails off to watch, transfixed, as Ryan's fingers fly across the keypad on his cellphone. In seconds, he has a page of search results pulled up.

Troy gapes before breaking into an impressed smile. "What would I do without you?"

"I'd say you managed to keep this thing running just fine without me."

 _Not really_ , is Troy's automatic thought, and that thought leads to him recalling climbing out of Gabriella's window, down the tree near her balcony, and sinking, hollow, with bones that felt like they were full of lead, into the driver's seat of his truck, only to hear the engine splutter uselessly when he turned the key in the ignition. Just adding onto the ever-expanding pile of things that were totally out of his control, that kept proving inoperable no matter how hard he tried to… "I had to dig for parts in a pile of junk at Riley's Auto Salvage," he admits with an awkward half-shrug.

Ryan's eyes stretch wide and he blinks slowly, flabbergasted. "Well… You're never going to have to do that again, okay?"

"Yeah, okay." For some reason, Troy feels oddly emotionally raw, like he's sure Ryan did after all of the times he's laid himself bare for Troy. He can't quite explain it, but… He's so used to mocking laughter he was meant to be cool with, no one offering to help, no one _caring_ …

He's so used to feeling completely inadequate.

But, with Ryan…

"Come on," Ryan says softly, his gaze gentle. "Let's get the parts you need to fix your truck."

.

When Ryan turns the key in the ignition after an hour and a half of labor, and the initial splutters transfigure into the steady purr of an (almost) fine-tuned engine, Troy breaks into a grin of quiet triumph and wipes off the perspiration beading under his bangs and dripping down his face with his shoulder.

The ice cold glass of lemonade Ryan offers Troy once Troy has toweled the grease and oil off his hands is almost as refreshing as the way Ryan beams at him, his eyes shimmering with pride. "See? Told ya you had it all handled."

Something inside of Troy that gradually retreated into a corner, curled up, withered away, and began to die without him even noticing while he was with Gabriella, awakens and gives a massive stretch, its stiffened bones creaking and popping.

"Yeah," he says slowly, measuring and tasting the words as they form on his tongue. A hint of a smile pulls at the corners of his mouth. "I guess I did."

.

Ryan has never had a proper Thanksgiving dinner. By now, Troy has come to expect that the Evans twins were denied- _too many_ \- facets of a normal upbringing, but he still feels a twinge in his chest as a half-asleep Ryan remarks, his cheek pressed to Troy's stomach, "The household staff used to make Sharpay and me a big pot of chicken soup. It was our Thanksgiving tradition."

"No pumpkin pie?" Troy asks. He intends for his tone to be light-hearted, tacking on a hint of a laugh as he runs his fingers through golden hair. But there's a dull ache in his chest that chokes the vowels and consonants.

"No." Ryan breathes in, oblivious, and his words thicken, cohesion leaving him. "No pumpkin pie."

It's far from an easy assignment, but Troy manages to scrape together a big pot of homemade chicken soup after researching the recipe online. He slices up carrots and celery and chunks of chicken, and boils them in chicken broth alongside egg noodles.

He also sneaks out and snags an organic pumpkin pie.

Even with the chaotic, hectic, makes-you-regret-leaving-your-house surge of last-minute shoppers.

When everything is prepared, he sweeps into the living room and grabs hold of Ryan's hand, tugging him off of the love seat.

"What?" Ryan asks. The smile working its way across his face is a mixture of bemused and intrigued.

Without answering, Troy places his hands over Ryan's eyes and guides him into the kitchen. "I present to you…" he declares at last, once they're in front of the stove. He steps aside and removes his hands from Ryan's eyes, then takes the lid off of the pot in a grand gesture, finishing with a smile, "Thanksgiving dinner."

Awe floods Ryan's features as he takes in the sight before him. "Troy, this is…"

Grabbing a ladle, Troy spoons soup into a bowl until it's full.

"You didn't have to," Ryan says softly, his eyes shining.

"I wanted to," Troy says simply, just like Ryan did so many nights ago. He hands Ryan the bowl and a spoon. "Let me know how I did?"

Smiling, Ryan dips the spoon into the soup and lifts it to his mouth. He blows on the spoonful of broth, two noodles, and a chunk of chicken, and sips it up slowly, carefully, thoughtfully. "It's…" he says, his inflection somewhere between elated and terrified. "It's _outstanding_."

"Awesome." Troy's heart gives a buoyant flutter. He might actually be _good_ at this. "Eat as much as you need to until you're full."

Ryan swallows. The corner of his mouth twitches, fear darkening his gaze. "I can't-"

"Hey," Troy cuts him off gently. He reaches out to steady Ryan's hand, which has begun to shake. "I know how hard the holidays can be on people with eating disorders," he continues just as gently.

Ryan searches Troy's eyes, then lowers his gaze to the contents of his bowl, as if the medical term for what he's struggling with is painful to hear. Something to be ashamed of. His stomach emits a quiet rumble and he shifts his weight, uncertain as his body's basic needs betray and defy him. He chokes out a dry laugh. "My sister can just go to a professional and have them fix whatever she doesn't like about herself."

"From where I'm standing," Troy says, tilting Ryan's chin toward him and ducking his head to meet his eyes. "There's nothing that needs to be fixed, on the outside. What does need fixing… is up here." Stretching his arm, he lightly taps Ryan on the forehead. "And," he taps at his own temple, as well. "Up here." His voice teems with gravitas and conviction as he goes on, "Something as simple as me accepting the love you have to give me, even if I can't always understand it, and you eating healthy, even though the voice of your disorder will give you hell for it, will go a long, long way toward fixing us."

"The voice of my disorder?" Ryan asks quietly, like he's never thought of it that way.

"Yeah. Those hateful thoughts about your appearance? The thing that screams at you if it thinks you've eaten too much? That's not _you_ , Ry. I promise." He could elaborate, talk about how that _thing_ 's only objective is to coerce Ryan into starving and purging until he's completely emaciated, nothing more than skin and bones with yellowed teeth from repeated vomiting, brittle fingernails and patchy hair, and his organs fail from a lack of sufficient nutrition. How _it_ will never be placated or satisfied by any number on a scale, because that number will _always_ be "not low enough". How _it_ is absolutely, definitely _not_ an "ally", and cannot be trusted to give anything other than a warped and distorted view of the body it's attempting to destroy from the inside out.

But, Ryan gives the bowl of soup a second, contemplative look, glances at Troy, and moves to the table.

Troy's insides tremble with the sweet sensation of _victory_.

Later that evening, as they're sitting on the couch to watch an airing of the Charlie Brown Thanksgiving special, Troy gets to watch Ryan's eyes light up as he experiences pumpkin pie for the first time.

Winning a championship game could never compare.

.

In December, after a particularly grueling basketball practice leaves Troy's legs and arms aching and his heart and stomach heavy, Ryan _insists_ on treating him to a parfait, which he "cannot _believe_ " Troy has never had before, and hot chocolate, even though they're in the state known for its endless summers. It's in the high eighties. Hardly hot chocolate weather.

Still… the parfait and hot chocolate make for an odd, but satisfying combination. Fruit, cream, and chocolate; sort of like the chocolate-covered strawberries Troy fed Gabriella before…

No. _Better_.

Troy presses a thankful kiss to Ryan's cheek and Ryan grins, stating with smug delight that is more attractive than it has any right to be, "I knew you'd love it."

.

Before everyone disperses for winter break, the student members of Berkeley's theater department gather for a party at Rosalind's mother's house. To the surprise of absolutely no one, given Rosalind's wardrobe, her mother is rolling in dough.

Twinkling icicle lights hang all over the sprawling house's exterior. The furniture in the front room looks like a set-up right from the pages of a home design magazine. Cookies, cakes, cupcakes, and brownies line every polished to perfection surface of the kitchen. Exotic wines and liquors, likely imported directly from their country of origin, sit out among bottles of whisky and Absolut Vodka, something that Florence informs Troy "tastes like kerosine".

Troy makes a mental note of that and resolves to steer Ryan away from the vodka at all costs.

As more bodies crowd into the front room, Troy's skin itches with the need to escape the crowd. Ryan stiffens beside him, sharing in his discomfort at being boxed in on all sides.

"You okay, Ry?" Troy asks.

"I'm fine," Ryan replies, the corners of his mouth twitching into a half-hearted attempt at a smile.

The party is supposed to be taking their minds off of what awaits them when winter break officially begins. It's supposed to be fun; the last "hurrah" before Troy is potentially disowned by his father.

But, the music is too loud, the beat like a jackhammer against Troy's skull. He feels an arm smack into his side, and Ryan is white, his hand ice in Troy's grasp.

Mercifully, Troy finds a wall for the two of them to lean against and closes his eyes, trying to regain his bearings. "Maybe this was a bad idea," he murmurs.

"What was?"

Troy reopens his eyes to a flash of pin-straight golden blonde hair, and finds Rosalind at his shoulder.

"Nothing. Uh." Troy glances at Ryan, wanting help.

"Er, um, we like your house," Ryan supplies.

Troy flashes him a grateful smile, rubbing his thumb over Ryan's knuckles both as a show of gratitude, and in an attempt to warm his icy hand.

"You do?" Rosalind's eyes widen ever so slightly. Her hand comes up to fiddle with the chain of the necklace hanging around her neck. It's silver, with a tiny silver heart and tiny teddy bear charm dangling from it. She says something else, but the music is so loud, it completely drowns her out.

"Huh?" Troy asks. He looks once again to Ryan, who shrugs, his expression echoing Troy's own cluelessness, then feels like a jerk and an idiot as he leans in ear-first toward his classmate.

"I'm sorry the music is so loud," Rosalind repeats, her voice unexpectedly soft. "I tried to see about having it turned down, but…" She trails off and steps back, her eyes falling to her feet. Her hands clasp together in a manner that reminds Troy of a nervous rabbit, or Kelsi Nielsen the day he helped her collect her scattered sheet music and offered his hand to get her on her feet, and…

Oh.

 _Rosalind is_ shy _._

"Well, let's give it another shot," Troy says loudly, the Team Captain and Coach's Son facets of his identity resurfacing in the volume of his voice. He doesn't particularly like this, or the consequent heads whipping around to stare at him.

He especially doesn't like the way Rosalind startles, just like a timid rabbit, and a shockwave shoots through Ryan.

Ryan, who has had to deal with his sister's tendency to let out ear-piercing shrieks for the sake of melodramatic hysterics for seventeen years.

Thankfully, because Troy doesn't think he could raise his voice again if he had to, Rosalind discerns what he said on the first try. "Okay," Troy is sure she's said. He can make out that much by reading her lips.

He makes a move to fall into step behind her, Ryan in tow, but his arm is tugged backward as Ryan staggers. Troy is at his side before he can lift a hand to his head. "Whoa," he says, steadying Ryan's distressingly light and thin frame.

Ryan looks disoriented, almost pained. "I'm fine," he says, but the far-off tone of his voice suggests that he's anything but.

"Hey." Gently, Troy puts his thumb under Ryan's chin and tilts his face toward him, searching his eyes.

Contrition and shame flood Ryan's gaze.

Troy doesn't need to ask to know.

He bites at the interior of his cheek, torn between staying here to encourage Ryan to eat, _feeding_ him himself if he has to, walking right out the door and stopping to get Ryan something he couldn't refuse, and helping Rosalind, who radiates anxiety from behind him.

Pulse in his throat, he calls out to a familiar head of platinum blonde hair. "Flo!"

Florence whips around and, as soon as her eyes land on Troy, maneuvers through the crowd to him. Her forehead creases as she takes in the situation, appraising Ryan's peaked skin, drained entirely of the faint, healthy glow that fills his face on a good day.

"Look after Ryan for me, okay?" Troy asks.

Florence nods, laying a hand on Ryan's arm to keep him steady.

Ryan acknowledges her with a glance, then looks back to Troy. "Troy…" he starts, his voice faint.

"I'll be back," Troy promises, pressing a kiss to Ryan's forehead. It's just as cold as his hands. "Sit down and eat something, okay?"

He's not sure if Ryan has heard him until he sees his lower lip quivering. At the prospect of food, or maybe at being left to basically fend for himself at a party filled with people he's only met once while his boyfriend, who is _supposed_ to be looking out for him, takes off with someone else to-

"Okay." Ryan squeezes Troy's hand, quieting Troy's racing thoughts. He holds Troy's gaze for an impossibly long second, his eyes saying so much that Troy can't quite comprehend, doesn't have the time to dissect.

Then, he lets go.

Florence is strong enough to keep Ryan upright, and Ryan is standing on sturdy legs, but Troy can't help feeling the way he did when Gabriella pulled her hand out of his grasp so she could collect her belongings from the locker room at Lava Springs: like a _failure_.

With a last concerned look at Ryan, Rosalind leads Troy out of the main room and toward the source of the thumping bass that seems to shake the entire house.

Troy's stomach twists, somersaulting, and his heart aches faintly, things the throbbing in his skull only exacerbate. But, he sees Rosalind's eyes- wide and pale blue- nervously darting to him as they dodge around gyrating bodies and descend the stairs into the basement, and tells himself that Ryan will be fine. They're going to work through this. Troy _will_ find a way to convince Ryan to eat, and to love himself, and embrace every inch of silky smooth ivory skin on his body.

Down here, in the lower level of the house, the music thrums like a mallet to Troy's brain. He can't even hear the click of Rosalind's ballet flats against the concrete flooring. Both of them have to cover their ears, Troy wincing and Rosalind cringing as they near the source of the deafening club dance track.

"Hey, man," Troy says loudly, tapping on the DJ's shoulder.

The man, wearing a beanie and a pair of sunglasses inside the house, like a douchebag, pulls one earphone away from his ear. "What's up, homedog?"

"Can you tun the music down?"

"What's that? You got a request, my man, you need to-"

"I said can you turn the music down!" Troy hollers.

There's a horrific record scratching noise and, unanimously, bodies freeze mid-dance, eyes boggling at Troy.

"Please," he adds at a normal volume. His hand reflexively comes up to rub at the back of his neck, and he suddenly longs for a mop to hide behind.

The DJ adjusts his glasses, likely giving Troy a bizarre look from behind the tinted lenses, then obliges.

Troy turns to Rosalind and while she ducks her head nervously, gratitude sparkles in her eyes and a very slight smile pulls at her mouth.

"This party was my mother's idea," she says as she and Troy head back up the stairs. "She… thought it might help with my socialization skills."

"You don't really seem like the partying type."

"Oh, I-I'm not." Rosalind clasps her hands together, again. A section of her hair curtains her face. "With so many people around every corner, I almost forget how to breathe."

There's a long pause. Something inside of Troy pulses, like the lingering, mostly muted ache of a banged-up limb. "Yeah," he says, his voice quiet. "I can relate."

His phone buzzes with a text and his heart pangs as he sees Ryan's name light up the screen.

 _Oh god_ , he thinks, fumbling to unlock the device, please _be-_

 **Florence, Tom, and I are on the deck, out back** _._

His steady walk becomes an almost jog without Troy even meaning for it to. Rosalind has to hurry to keep up with him, and he feels like a jerk, as she clearly isn't built for hurrying anywhere, but he _needs_ to see Ryan, touch him, affirm that he's okay for himself.

Swerving around every person crowded in the various nooks and crannies and corridors of the house feels like competing in some kind of gauntlet. Every body is like a death trap swinging wildly to take him out, and it feels like the walls are closing in, _Indiana Jones_ style. Thankfully, the sliding glass doors open with ease once Troy reaches them.

Ryan, just as he said, stands next to Florence and Tom, leaning against the railing lining the deck. He's smiling at something Florence is telling him, then turns, suddenly, in Troy's direction. When he spots him, their eyes lock, and he rights himself. His gaze is soft, as it always is, Troy notes, when _he_ is its object of focus. But, as those clear, cornflower blue eyes sweep over Troy's probably obviously frazzled, panicked exterior, they darken, bringing a distinctly worried overcast to the rest of Ryan's face.

Troy takes a moment to run a hand through his hair, wishing he had Ryan's near-infrangible composure. "Hey," he says.

"Hey," Ryan returns.

Hoping to quell any inquiries to his well-being, Troy moves to Ryan's side.

Ryan meets him halfway. "Are you okay?" He asks.

"Yeah. I was just… worried."

Crease in his forehead, Ryan brushes a few flyaway strands of hair out of Troy's face. "Florence thought I could do with some fresh air."

Behind them, Rosalind slips out, closing the sliding glass door behind her.

Troy nods vaguely, his frantic nerves soothed by the sound of Ryan's voice. He breathes in the cool night air, refreshing after the tight, compressed air inside, and his insides almost tingle with relief at being out of the packed house. He's aware of Rosalind likewise seeming to loosen up as she stands a few paces away. "A brilliant idea."

"Ryan, Tom, and I were just discussing our favorite icons of the silver screen from the cinema days of yore," Florence says, sidling up to them with Tom at her side.

Ryan steps to Troy's side, so he isn't in the way.

"Mine is Pedro Infante."

Troy nods, though unfamiliar with the name.

"Tom's is Natalie Wood," Florence continues, tapping her boyfriend on the shoulder.

"She was a very tragic figure," Tom intones, his expression wistful.

"Growing up," Ryan says, kicking his foot forward, his cheeks a light pink, "I was head over heels for Gene Kelly in _Singin' In The Rain_."

"Oh?" Troy tries to ignore the minute flare of jealousy in his lower stomach. It's a stupid thing to get worked up about. He knows that.

He'll just have to ignore the accompanying memory of Gabriella's hands tangled in another guy's hair, as well.

"How about you, Miss Ingenue?" Florence asks.

As one, everyone turns to face Rosalind, who, Troy has to hand it to her, manages not to flinch under so many expectant gazes. "Me?" Her hand comes up and, once again, begins to fiddle with her necklace. "I've… always admired Buster Keaton. For his eyes."

Florence's brows elevate and she exchanges a look with Tom.

Troy has no idea who Buster Keaton is and he relays this to Ryan with a glance and a slight shrug.

Ryan's look, in response, promises to fill him in, later.

"And, Troy?"

Subconsciously, reflexively, Troy leans into Ryan. He's used to having expectant gazes trained on him, but those gazes always sought a sacrifice on his part, insisted on an undertaking that he was _obligated_ to see through to the bitter end.

No one has ever looked to him seeking to gain insight to his personal feelings on, well… anything.

"Uh…" He rubs at his neck. The striking, bespectacled figure of Atticus Finch comes to mind, and the name, "Gregory Peck", rolls off his tongue before he can stop to consider the potential ramifications.

"Gregory Peck, huh?" Florence's brows crinkle, her eyes glimmering.

Immediately, Troy's stomach clenches. He braces to have to defend himself, laugh off his prior confession, claim to be interested in someone more acceptable, like Marilyn Monroe.

Then, Ryan contributes, his voice light, lilting, and completely sincere, "He was amazing in _The Omen_."

Troy feels his heart skip a beat. He shifts even closer to Ryan; accepting, understanding, has never, ever judged him or made him feel like he has to be someone he's not Ryan. "Yeah," he says, just allowing a slight smile to quirk his lips. "He was."

Ryan's skin is still a distressing alabaster, but his body isn't shaking and the soft, tender smile tugging at his lips has restored some of the life to his face.

Florence exchanges a glance with Tom. "He _does_ have this 'ultimate hot dad' vibe about him," she says.

Tom gives a nod.

Weird observation, but Troy will take it. Out of nowhere, it dawns on him that Florence, Tom, and Rosalind are _not_ the Wildcats. They don't have any rigid, concrete expectations for him to live up to. He's _Just Troy_ to them.

As the realization sets in, Troy's fear of judgement and rejection begins to subside, and a warm feeling like acceptance replaces it. Reaching out his hand, his first two fingers locate Ryan's, curling around them. Ryan's fingers wind around Troy's, in kind. Tightly.

"So…" Ryan looks to Rosalind and implores kindly, "Buster Keaton?"

.

"I'm sorry I didn't eat today," Ryan says as they're sitting on the bed in his apartment, removing their shoes.

"It was a minor setback." Troy pulls one of his tennis shoes off and sets it on the floor beside its mate. "A bad day. They happen during the recovery process."

Disconcerting silence is the only reply. He can almost feel a storm brewing beside him.

"Ryan?"

All at once, words tumble out of Ryan's mouth almost feverishly, his voice too fast, quavering, reedy. "You don't have to come out to your dad. We could keep our relationship a secret and pretend to be nothing more than friends. Or… ! Or, you could dump me for a girl, a _healthy_ , _sane_ , perfectly _normal_ girl who won't weigh you down with-"

" _Hey_." Alarmed, Troy cuts Ryan off a bit sharper than he means to. He turns to face him, peering deeply into his eyes, searching them. "Is that why you starved yourself? You were worried about how my dad's going to react to us?"

Ryan lowers his gaze shamefully, but can't conceal the tears misting his eyes. He doesn't even try to.

"Okay." Moving in, Troy wraps an arm around Ryan and pulls him snug and _safe_ against him. "First of all, my parents will _love_ you. If, for some totally insane reason, they don't, that's on them. Second… You've always been yourself. Fearlessly. Unapologetically. Even when kids at East High gave you a hard time about it, you never stopped dressing how you wanted and doing what you love. Maybe, I…" Troy feels his brows knitting and he swallows. Conviction stirs inside of him, and he lets himself be swept up and away by it. "No. I _am_ tired of trying to hide who I really am out of fear of disappointing someone else."

"I know. And, you never should have had to. I just…" Ryan swallows and his tears begin to spill down his cheeks. "I don't want to create any more tension between you and your dad."

"You _won't_ ," Troy promises. He leans into Ryan, so close, he can feel the molecules shift in the air around them. "You won't, Ry. How my dad reacts to things is something neither of us have any control over."

Ryan sniffles lightly, wiping one trail of tears off his face with his index finger. "I…" He lowers his gaze to the bedsheets beneath them. "I keep thinking this is all a dream. A crazy, wonderful, amazing dream that I'm going to wake from and find myself in my room at my parents' house in Albuquerque, or, worse, in Rhode Island, all alone and having never even met you."

It takes Troy a minute to collect his thoughts. The admission has struck too close to home. How many times has _he_ dreamed of waking up to realize that he's back in his own bedroom in Albuquerque, that picture of Gabriella in her powder blue sweater back on his nightstand, her soft, appealing smile twisted into a mocking smirk? Her warm, chocolate brown eyes cold and derisive, forever instilling in him the knowledge that he is not and _never will be_ good enough for her or anyone else?

Pushing that crushing fear as far down as he can, Troy shifts his hand to the back of Ryan's neck, rubbing at it. The tips of his fingers stroke the baby-fine blond hairs there. "You're not dreaming."

Ryan lifts his eyes and meets Troy's.

"When you wake up," Troy continues, "I'll still be here. We will still be us. I promise."

Slowly, a small smile quirks the ends of Ryan's lips. His eyes glow and he leans in, touching the tip of his nose to Troy's. "Everything you've said… about my bulimia… It's very insightful." He moves up and butts Troy's forehead very softly with his own. "You're learning a lot in that Psychology course, huh?"

"I suppose so." Troy lightly butts Ryan's forehead, in return.

"I love you, Troy."

Troy. Not _Wildcat_. Every time, it's silvery, euphonious music to Troy's ears.

The kiss they share evolves into gentle nips and roaming hands, and Ryan's roaming hands unfasten Troy's belt and fly and slip into his jeans, then his boxers, his eyes seeking permission the entire time.

Troy grasps Ryan's forearm tightly, biting at his lower lip as that _oh-so talented_ hand works its magic on him, unraveling something at the center of his being- a coil that has been wound tight for months, _years_. It's all he can do to remember to breathe as heat builds and builds and builds inside of him and he presses his face into the crook of Ryan's neck.

Ryan's breath quickens and his heart races in-synch with Troy's, his hips rocking forward in time with the motions of his hand. The world falls away and the steady, practiced movement of Ryan's hand, the sensation those movements engenders is…

Too much. Too good. Too _everythingallatonce_.

Troy gasps, "I love you too, Ryan! I love you, too!", and spills onto Ryan's hand.

As usual, he realizes with dismay, once the euphoric haze has begun to lift and his heartbeat has wound down, he's created a mess.

But, it's a mess that a flush-faced, starry-eyed, sporting a growing wet spot on the front of his dress pants Ryan doesn't seem to mind.

.

.

.

.

 **A/N:** I am exorbitantly, tremendously sorry for the egregiously, _inexcusably_ lengthy duration between uploads. Due to a seemingly interminable period of personal issues, it took me a long time to convince myself this story was even worth finishing.

But, here is the third part at last, and a fourth and possibly fifth installment are set to follow, for better or worse.

Bless the hearts of those of you who are still along for the ride. This story is dedicated to you, and to everyone who inspired me to keep going.


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